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A FATHER'S TALES 



OF THB 



FRENCH REVOLUTION 



COMPRISIN& 



The King and Queen; The Eotal Children; 

The Viscount's Family ; Tommy, the English Orphan ; 

AND Marquis De Lafayette. 




FIRST SERIES. 

By the Author of " Confessors of Coaaught," " Grace Morton," &o 






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v' 



y 



'%-^ PHILADELPHIA : 

PETER F. CUNNINGHAM, 

Catholic Bookseller, No. 216 South Third Street. 

1866. 



9?- 



^BB LIBRARY 
m9 CONGRESS 

WASHINGTOJ^ 



Entered according to the Act of Congress, in th« 
year 1866, by 

PETER F. CUlSNINGHAM, 

Xa the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the 
Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



XJ 




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"N^ow father, you have time to tell us 
those stories of the French Revolution you 
have been so long promising us." 

With these words a group of eager 
children surrounded the sofa on which 
their father lay, suffering with a sprained 
ankle. A smile brightened his face as he 
looked on his bright, intelligent boys and 
girls. 

" But, my dears," interposed the thought- 
ful mother, " while your father is in so 
much pain you do not expect him to 
amuse you with stories ? It is rather 
your place now to amuse liim." 



IV INTRODUCTION. 

" They did so most successfullj yester- 
day," said the kind father, " so I suppose 
I must indulge them to-day. It is a good 
while since I made that promise, and this 
is a very fitting time to redeem it. While 
dwelling on those scenes of terror and woe 
in which so much heroic fortitude .and 
patience were displayed, the recollection 
will serve to curb my impatience under 
this trifling afi'ection." 

" Oh, father ! you impatient!" exclaimed 
the children, surprised and a little in- 
dignant that such a charge should be 
made even by himself; for who knew 
better than they and mother how patiently 
he bore pain and sickness? Mr. White 
was a Christian in spirit as well as in name, 
and knew that to be so he must bear 
willingly whatever cross was laid upon 
him. 

"Well, we are to begin the stories. 



INTEODUCTIO^. , V 

Shall they be true or ficticious one, little 
folks?" 

" True ones, dear father, if you please," 
was the general cry. 

" About the poor King, and his wife 
and little children," pleaded blue-eyed 
Katy. " The dear, good King — I'm so 
sorry they killed him." 

" Bah 1 it served him right," said her 
brother Charles, stoutly.' "If he had 
acted like a man he would have saved him- 
self and France too." 

" Can you tell us, Master Charles, how 
he should have acted to produce that happy 
result !" queried his father, dryly. 

" Why, ordered his soldiers to shoot 
down those who wanted to raise a row," 
was the ready answer. 

" Suppose the "soldiers would rather 
take part in raising the row — what then?" 

" Then collect the people — ^the true peo- 



VI INTEODUCTIOK. 

pie, I mean — tell them how things were 
going, and get them to stand by him and 
the right." 

"Suppose even. these true people were 
divided among themselves, some thiiiking 
he ought to yield to his disaffected sub- 
jects, others that he should put them down 
by main force, that many among these 
true people were luke-warm friends, caring 
little for him or the right so they could 
secure their own interests; and others, 
secret foes, who, while pretending devotion 
to the King and the nation, were covertly 
trying every means to ruin both. What 
then, my young statesman?" 

Charles looked puzzled. " But was that 
the case, father ?" 

" That was really the case, my boy." 

" I thought it was all the King's fault," 
said Charles, doubtingly. 

" So did I," chimed in his cousin James. 



INTRODUCTION. Vll 

" You know our history of France makes 
Louis XYI. appear a good natured sort of 
man, ' amiable but weak-minded and 
wholly destitute of decision of character : 
and it intimates that a ruler like Napoleon * 
would soon have put down the difficulty.' 
" Perhaps so, but this is by no means 
certain. You must take into account 
something which your school history does 
not mention — that the chief instigators of 
the work that produced the Eeign of Ter- 
ror, were animated by that spirit of hostili- 
ty to the altar and the throne which, from 
the days of Calvin, had disturbed the 
peace of the nation. These enemies of the 
Church, joining hands with the infidels, 
had procured the suppression of the Jesuits 
in France by order of Louis XY. Having 
so far triumphed they were encouraged to 
pursue their schemes for the total over- 
throw of Catholicity in that nation which 



Vm INTEODUCTION. 

bears tlie honored title of eldest daugliter 
of the Church. The monarchy stood in 
their way ; therefore it was necessary that 
it also should be crushed. These projects, 
if openly avowed, would have been rejected 
with horror by the people. Hence they 
were artfully disguised by such specious 
pretences as securing the rights of the 
people — putting down aristocratic oppres- 
sion ; establishing universal liberty. The 
people fell into the snare and the sad 
results astonished and horrified the world. 
But it is time to begin our stories, and 
Katy wants to hear something of the royal 
family." 



~«sfl'/T5 ^ o %J^' h°i'UT(?P^ /^ ^'tsst^T' 






CHAPTEK I. 1^ 

-^^THE KING- AND THE QUEEN. ^ts>^ 

.^TfO _,^-5TJ ^^-SD ^-TQ 

)N a fine summer afternoon, three 
boys stood at a window in tlie 
palace of the Tuileries, the an- 
^ cient residence of the Kings of 
France. It was a fair scene on 
which they gazed, with the bright sun- 
shine lighting up the magnificent gardens, 
adding its own gorgeousness to the gay 
masses of flowers, and making the cool 
shadows cast by the old trees all the more 
beautiful from the contrast. Sentinels 
paraded to and fro, their handsome uni- 
forms and bright weapons glittering in the 
sunbeams. A joyous multitude thronged 
the beautiful groves. Under the great 
chestnut trees children played merrily; 
iheir various costumes, as the happy little 

(9) 



10 A father's tales. 

creatures flitted back and fortli, adding 
not a little to tlie brilliancy of the spec- 
tacle. 

The boys at the palace window looked 
down on the charming scene with a pleasure 
in which mingled a good deal of the pride 
of ownership, for that stately palace was 
their home; they were grandsons of the 
reigning king, Louis XV. Pride and 
vanity are the earliest developed feelings 
in most hearts ; they are like noxious 
weeds in the garden, which will spring up 
spite of the gardener's vigilance, and tax 
his patience and industry to eradicate 
them. It was not strange that those lads, 
piously trained as they were, had imbibed 
high notions of the rank which was their 
birthright. They were accustomed to see 
themselves treated with the utmost defer- 
ence by the proudest nobles of the Court ; 
they saw their names written with a long 
string of titles and orders, which could 
not fail to fill their young minds with a 
lively sense of their own importance. As 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 11 

they looked out on the garden, they began 
in boyish fashion to dispute whose title 
was the prettiest, calling over the long list, 
admiring and then rejecting each name in 
turn ; but the eldest suddenly seemed to lose 
his interest in the subject, and became silent 
and thoughtful. His brothers, noticing 
this, were the more eager to have him go 
on, and say which of his titles he liked 
best. 

"JSTone of them," was his reply. ''I 
like best the name that was given to me 
this morning." Then, at the boy's urgent 
entreaty, he continued : "I was walking 
through the garden with General de L. 
A woman sat on one of the benches, with 
a little boy and girl beside her ; they were 
crying, and the poor woman looked as if 
she could cry too. I soon found out what 
was their trouble. They were not beggars, 
but they were very poor, and — " 

Here the young prince stopped abruptly, 
and turned away as if he did not wish to 
say more, but the others would not let 
him off. 



12 A father's tales. 

" You gave them all the money you 
had, of course ; that is one's duty, — well, 
what then, Louis?" 

" Then she kissed my hand and said, 
' My little lord, may you always be the 
benefactor of the poor !'" 

"And that's the title you like best? 
You're such a child, Lou.is!" The two 
little fellows laughed heartily at their 
brother's childishness, and resumed their 
previous subject of discussion, whose title 
was the grandest. 

While they were thus engaged, a noble 
looking gentleman entered the room. He 
was their father, the Dauphin, a man as 
distinguished for his virtues as for his 
high rank. He listened for a few mo- 
ments to the eager dialogue of the boys, 
who, becoming aware of his presence, 
sprang to embrace him, and refer their 
claims to his decision. But he, smilingly, 
refused to act as umpire. 

A few days afterwards he called his 
three sons, and showed them the parish 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 18 

registers of baptism, in wTiicli their names 
were simply inscribed with those of other 
children. 

"You see," he then said, "that here 
your names are mixed and confounded 
with those of the people. This shows 
you that the distinctions you enjoy are 
not the gift of nature, who has made all 
men equal. It is only virtue that makes 
^ any true difference between them ; and it 
may be that the child of the poor man, 
whose name precedes yours, will be more 
great in the eyes of God than you will 
ever be in the eyes of the people." 

The younger boys looked down abashed 
by this gentle rebuke of their foolish 
fancies, but the eldest, leaning his head on 
his father's shoulder whispered a promise 
never to, forget the lesson. 

" Oh, yes, brother intends to be a second 
Saint Louis," and the boys gaily told of 
the poor woman's compliment with which 
he had been so pleased. They believed 

2 



14: A father's tales. 

ihe preferred her title even to tliat of King 
■of France. 

I do not wish, that title — I shall never be 
King," said the affectionate youth, putting 
his arms closer round his idolized father, 
who returned, the caress as he answered : 

" In the providence of God you may in 
future years enjoy that proud title, my son. 
If so, remember that though you may not 
be one of the greatest or most fortunate of 
your country's monarchs, you may, if 
you wish, be one of the best." 

The young Prince always remembered 
this conversation, and I have often thought 
-that it exercised a lasting influence on his 
career, for his memory is dear to all na- 
tions as the good and virtuous, though un- 
fortunate King, Louis, XYI. 

A few years passed. Louis XY. died. 
His son, the Dauphin, had been already 
■called to receive the reward of his virtues 
in the heavenly kingdom. Our young 
Louis, in his twentieth year found his 
brow encircled with the kingly diadem 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 15 

whicli was to prove to Mni truly a crown 
of thorns. The first years of his reign, 
however, were prosperous, and he enjoyed 
the satisfaction of knowing that he pos- 
sessed the affection of his people. In his 
family he experienced happiness such as 
seldom falls to the lot of monarchs. With 
his brothers and his sister, the amiable 
Princess Elizabeth, he ever maintained 
the most affectionate intercourse : and his 
marriage with Marie Antoinette, Arch- 
duchess of Austria, secured his domestic 
happiness. Some writers, whose preju- 
dices warp their judgment, have repre- 
sented this marriage as one of the chief 
causes of the woes that afterwards befell 
the nation. They talk of the evils of Aus- 
trian influences, the haughtiness of the 
young Queen, her extravagance and love • 
of show. It was almost inevitable that 
she should be a little spoiled by the ex- 
eesssive adulation she received in France, 
where her beauty and accomplishments 
were the theme of every tongue. But 



16 A father's tales. 

while admittiug tliis, it is only just to re- 
member also Iier great virtues ; and that 
her disposition was intrinsically noble and 
generous, was proved during the trying 
scenes that marked the last years of her 
life. As Americans, we owe the beautiful 
Marie Antoinette a debt of gratitude which 
should make us lenient in judging of her 
foibles. From the commencement of our 
revolutionary struggle, she entered warmly 
into Lafayette's projects for helping the 
cause of freedom ; and her influence, which 
was all-powerful with the King, at length 
prevailed on him to furnish that material 
aid — in men, ships, money, and munitions 
of war — with out which the rebellious colo- 
nies could never have succeeded in gain- 
ing their independence. 

The dark days of the revolution drew 
on, and Louis XYI. saw his kingly power 
slipping from his grasp. Yain were his 
concessions to the clamorous populace ; the 
more he yielded the more insolent grew 
their demands. Had he been a despotic 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 17 

sovereign, firmly intent on upholding 
liis own power, and "anscrupnlous as to 
the means that would accomplish this 
purpose, he might, perhaps, have suc- 
ceeded in putting down the spirit of revolt, 
as had been done by two of his prede- 
cessors, (Charles IX. and Louis XIY.) But 
he was too humane and too deeply attached 
to his subjects, to employ cruel or arbi- 
trary measures against them. The lead- 
ing principle with which he began his reign 
animated him even to the end — his desire 
was to be the father of his people, not the 
oppressor of any. From the commencement 
of the troubles his firm determination, as 
he often declared, was "that no drop of 
French blood should be shed by his order," 
and how faithfully he adhered to that pur- 
pose history tells. 

The 17th of July, 178^, was a memor- 
able day, in the King's life. Then began 
the long series of open insults and out- 
rages which made his life thenceforward a 
continual martyrdom. The people of Paris 

2?* 



IS A father's tales. 

insisted on a visit from tlie King. To go 
thither from Versailles was a perilous 
movement, and his friends endeavored to 
dissuade him from it. But Louis, though 
sharing tlieir apprehensions, that death or 
imprisonment awaited him, resolved to 
comply with the people's request. The 
night of the 16th was spent in preparations 
for whatever event the morrow might wit- 
ness. As far as he was able he arranged 
matters which he deemed of vital import- 
ance to the country, and nominated his 
brother Lieutenant of France, in case of 
his own detention at Paris. 

Then the pious monarch, who in pros- 
perity and adversity was equally faithful 
in his service to the King of kings, gave 
his mind to prayer and preparation for 
receiving the blessed sacrament at the day- 
break mass. How pure and fervent were 
the sentiments in which he communicated ; 
how entirely he offered himself in union 
with the adorable sacrifice of the altar, 
renouncing all desires save that of doing 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 19 

and suffering whatever God willed or per- 
mitted, we may jndge by liis after conduct. 
Yery sad was tlie little congregation as- 
sembled that morning in the palace cliapel. 
The royal family and the members of the 
court — ^the of&cers of the guards and the 
servants of the palace, all were oppressed 
with gloomy forebodings, and we can well 
believe that from the most tepid souls 
there as well as from the devout, earnest 
supplications arose to heaven on behalf of 
him who well merited their loyal regard. 

At an early hour the king left Yersailles, 
after a solemn parting with his family and 
friends. He rode in a plain carriage, unat- 
tended by guards, the members of the 
National Assembly, then in session at- 
Versailles, accompanying him on foot. At 
three o'clock in the afternoon the proces- 
sion reached the gates of Paris, where 
two hundred thousand men, composing 
the National Guard, were drawn up in 
military array to receive the king. The 
whole population of the city seemed in 



20 A father's tales. 

uproar. They thronged the streets, the 
balconies and the house-tops, filling the 
air with tumnltuons cries of "Live the 
Nation!" Not one voice sent np the old 
familiar shout, " Long live the King P'' The 
sensitive monarch mnst have keenly felt 
the omission. In the capital of the nation, 
which his proud race had ruled for eight 
centuries, he seemed utterly forsaken. 
When he looked on the members of the 
Assembly who so closely surrounded his 
carriage, as if to honor and protect him by 
their presence, he could but remember 
that he had convoked them under the old 
title of States- General, by the desire of the 
people, to assist him in reforming abuses, 
But they had quickly seized the legisla- 
tive authority, constituted themselves the 
"National Assembly, one and indivisible," 
and secretly undermining the old govern- 
ment, were noAV in reality masters of king 
and people. And the National Guard, 
lining his way to the Hotel de Yille — 
Louis had authorized the establishment of 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 21 

this army, but it was not at his command 
now. Thus escorted and surrounded by 
foes and usurpers of his authority, the 
king entered the spacious hall, which was 
presently filled with a dense multitude. The 
new mayor of the city commenced proceed- 
ings by presenting him the tri-colored 
cockade, the emblem of the new govern- 
ment. Louis received it in silence, and 
pinned it upon his hat, thus adopting the 
popular cause. This act excited the en^ 
thusiasm of the crowd, and now the old- 
fashioned shout " Yive le Eoi!" burst from 
all lips with an energy and fervor that 
deeply moved the king. Turning to one 
of his attendants he exclaimed with emo- 
tion, " My heart stands in need of such 
shouts from the people." Having made 
this concession to the popular feeling, the 
king was next required to give his sanction 
to the various proceedings of the munici- 
pality, which were now read ; Louis, by 
his silence, assenting to all. What a 
mockery was this! what inexpressible 



22 A father's tales. 

liumiliation to the sovereign wlio, robbed 
of bis rigbtful authority, was thus con- 
sulted about measures which, however 
repugnant to his views, he could not 
oppose. 

But there was yet another trial, the 
climax to all the sufferings of that day, 
Mayor Bailly thought it fitting to lead 
him to the balcony, that the gaping crowds 
in the street might be gratified by the 
sight of their king vjearing the tri- colored 
cockade. The delight of the people at this 
was unbounded. Sad and silent the king 
stood before them. One glance at the 
bright summer sky, and then meekly 
accepting this crowning indignity, the 
royal victim bowed his head, and tears 
which told the anguish of his noble heart 
streamed down his pale cheeks, as he 
listened to the approving shouts of those 
who, had they possessed one spark of 
manly or generous feeling, would have 
b.een shamed into silence by this touching- 
spectacle of their sovereign's humiliation. 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 23 

Meantime, to tlie court at Yersailles, 
how wearily liad passed the honrs of that 
long summer day. The queen, almost in 
despair, employed herself in composing 
an address to the Assembly, which she in- 
tended to present in person in the event 
of the king being detained a prisoner. One 
of the ladies- of the court, Madame Cam- 
pan, has recorded that it began thus : — 
" Grentlemen, I come to place in your hands 
the wife and family of your sovereign. 
Do not suffer those who have been united 
in heaven to be put asunder on earth." 
While committing the address to memory, 
she often gave way to tears and lamenta- 
tions, exclaiming wildly, " They will never 
let him return.''* 

But at a late hour in the evening, the 
joyful exclamations of the courtiers an- 
nounced that her husband had returned in 
safety. What a rapturous welcome awaited 
him. Pleasure beamed on every counte- 
nance. His devoted wife, still weeping 
but now with joy, met him on the stairs, 



24 A father's tales. 

and threw herself into his arms ; his fair 
young daughter and the little dauphin 
shared in the embrace, and all clinging 
lovingly together, ascended to the grand 
saloon, scarcely able to believe in the 
reality of their happiness. Lonis had now 
regained his usual serenity. With the 
magnanimity which distinguished him, 
he had buried all the bitter recollections 
of the day, and now thought only of the 
good feeling which seemed to be re-estab- 
lished between himself and his subjects. 
In a spirit of fervent gratitude to Plim in 
whom he trusted he could rejoice that this 
end was attained, even at such cost to 
himself. But his sanguine hopes were 
doomed to disappointment. That day was 
but the type of many others which were 
to test his patience and fortitude, and on 
which his mental sufferings were immea- 
sureably increased by seeing his family 
exposed to similar indignities, while he 
was unable to protect them. 

After one of these scenes, when the mob 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 25 

had forced tliemselves into tlie presence of 
the queen, and with fierce imprecations 
threatened to take her life, the Assembly 
obliged the royal family to remove to 
Paris, under the pretence that they would 
be more safe there, but in reality to pre- 
vent the possibility of their escape from 
France. 

At the Tuilleries they found that they 
were in reality prisoners. So closely were 
they guarded and watched that it was only 
by stratagem, and in the darkness and si- 
lence of night, the king, his sister, and 
the queen, were able to perform their 
Easter duties. The new rulers of France, 
haunted by fears and suspicions, as tyrants 
always are, dreaded that even the pious 
chaplain would be able to rescue their 
royal captives from the midst of armed 
guards and watchful spies. 

While the king was thus held in cap- 
tivity, the conspirators against the throne 
made rapid progress in their work. Al- 
ready they had effected radical changes in 

3 



20 A father's tales. 

tlie goverument. The royal authority 
was, in effect, annihilated ; the privileges 
of the nobles and clergy abolished. Next 
freedom of the press was established, — 
that is, freedom to scoff at everything sa- 
cred, to execrate and villify ^' the old sys- 
tem," and laud "the new one" to the skies. 
Religious liberty was proclaimed ; and as 
a specimen of what this boasted liberty 
was to be, the monasteries, peaceful abodes 
of reliarion and learnins^ durinsc acres, were 
suppressed, and the church lands confis- 
cated. The next step was to form a con- 
stitution, establishing a limited monarchy, 
and the equality of all ranks. This con- 
stitution was acceioted by the king. Steady 
in his love for his misguided subjects, he 
was willing to sacrifice, at their demand, 
all the rights and privileges to which he 
was legally entitled. That this compliance, 
however, did not proceed from weakness 
or cowardice, as some have asserted, was 
evident from the firmness with which he 
refused his sanction to the decree the As. 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 27 

senibly had passed against the ministers 
of religion. His own rights he was always 
willing to yield ; the rights of the Church, 
never. This firmness incensed the popu- 
lace still more' against him. There was 
no longer safety for the king's family in 
the palace. The royal troops could not 
be depended on; all but a few had been 
either bribed or terrified into joining " the 
cause of the people." 

The tenth of August, 1792, dawned 
upon a strange and terrifying spectacle. 
The mob had gathered for a final assault 
on royalty. An immense multitude 
blocked up the streets in the vicinity of 
the Toiilleries ; the banks of the Seine 
were black with the swarming crowds; 
far as the eye could reach throngs of in- 
furiated men and women were to be seen. 
In the beautiful grounds of the chateau 
alone quietness reigned. The sentinels, 
calm and stern as ever, paced the avenues, 
their bright weapons and gay uniforms 
adding to the gorgeous appearance of the 



28 , A father's tales. 

gardens, where masses of summer's latest 
and richest flowers were in fall bloom. 
Eight hundred Swiss guards were loiter- 
ing about the entrance of the palace, on 
the staircases and landings. All the other 
troops had proved faithless. These men 
alone, faithful to their trust, awaited, with 
unshaken calmness, the rude onset of the 
populace. "Within the palace things wore 
a new and gloomy aspect. There was all 
the confusion of a" besieged fortress, with- 
out its safety. Military men and gleam- 
ing weapons met the eye at every turn. 
Ofiicers, whose stern-set features told that 
they were ready to meet the coming storm, 
were constantly passing to and fro from 
the garden to the apartments of the king. 
A few of the nobles of the Court, too 
brave and too generous to think of their 
own safety while their queen was in 
danger, gathered near her apartments, 
the forlorn hope of royalty, ready to share 
her fate and die in her defence. 

And that queen, — who could tell what 



THE KIXG AND THE QUEEN. 29 

slie suffered? All tlie night long, she, 
with her sister-in-law, Madame Elizabeth, 
went back and forth from one saddening 
scene to another in anxiety that Avould not 
allow them to think of rest. Now with 
the king, cheering and inspiring him by 
their affectionate sympathy, — now bend- 
ing over 'the couches of the royal children, 
for whom the fond mother and aunt were 
oppressed with grievous fears, — again 
gliding to the council chamber, where the 
ministers were sitting, in hope of hearing 
some plan proposed that would promise 
relief. In crossing the rooms and entries 
where their faithful defenders maintained 
their sad vigil, how nobly they restrained 
their tears, and by kind words and gra- 
cious smiles inspired those heroic men 
with fresh ardor. It was truly a touching 
spectacle, and one that would not fail to 
inspire manly hearts with compassion, 
generosity and courage — those two noble 
and beautiful women wandering through 
a palace, filled with armed men, all night 
. 3* 



80 A father's tales. 

long ; both regardless of their own danger, 
trembling only for the life of a husband 
and brother, and for those helpless child- 
ren who slumbered so tranquilly in the 
midst of grief and danger. 

Thus the long hours wore on and the 
dreaded morning dawned at last. The 
royal family came forth from the' darkness 
of that terrible night, to find themselves 
hemmed in by enemies a hundred thous- 
and strong, to hear the multitude shrieking 
and clamoring for veng'eance, while attack- 
ing with fiendish fury the little band who 
stood firm in their persecuted sovereign's 
cause. In the first onset two of those 
faithful guards were slain, and the women 
like a throng of demons rushed into the 
gardens, menacing the guards, and with 
their pikes uprooting the beautiful flowers, 
as zealously as they had already uprooted 
every good and humane feeling from their 
hearts. 

Meantime the royal family had gathered 
in the council chamber. The queen, pale, 



THE KING- AND THE QUEEN. 31 

but courageous as ever, sat upon a sfool, 
anxiously listening to the deliberations of 
the ministers. Her children clung to her 
in silent terror ; Madame Elizabeth was 
by her side, and close by stood the king, 
regarding the little group mth looks of 
keenest anguish. 

Around the hall hovered the few de 
voted adherents of the throne asking only 
the sad privilege of being near the objects 
of their loyal affection, in this hour of their 
utter sorrow and humiliation. When it 
was decided that the royal family must 
place themselves under the protection of 
the Assembly, the little procession went 
forth in silent sorrow to behold their 
beloved sovereigns abdicate the throne. 
Calmly though with sadness Louis pro- 
nounced the solemn words of abdication. 

Beside him stood the queen, ready to 
share his dangers and humiliations in the 
future, with even more courage and de- 
votedness than she had shown in the past. 
Never, in the most brilliant scenes of her 



82 A fathee's tales. 

reign, had Marie Antoinette looked so 
noble and queenlike in tlie estimation of 
lier weeping attendants, as at that moment, 
when renouncing all earthly dignities and 
hopes. Though her saddened countenance 
told how keenly she felt the trials which 
wounded her every feeling as woman, 
queen, wife, and mother, yet the gracious 
dignity of manner which had always dis- 
tinguished her, remained unaltered 

Thus sorrowful, but calm and uncomplain- 
ing, she passed with her royal husband 
from the throne to the Temple, which was 
to be for a time the prison of this afflicted 
family. 

One consolation attended their imprison- 
m.ent; they were still all together; and, 
animated by the deepest affection for one 
another, and upheld by the spirit of reli- 
gion, they not only bore their great reverse 
of fortune with patience, but even con- 
trived to spend their time usefully, as cir- 
cumstances permitted. The education of 
the children was not neglected. King 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 33 

Louis heard their lessons, and failed not 
to draw their attention to everything that 
could elevate and inspire their docile minds. 
From the queen and Madame Elizabeth 
ihej received instructions in drawing and 
music. At stated hours — for in this little 
prison household all things were conducted 
with regularity and order — the king or his 
sister would read aloud, while the queen 
was busy with the embroidery work of 
which she was so fond. The two ladies 
had also another occupation, a strange one 
for royal fingers — mending the poor and 
scant supply of garments which remained 
to them. In everything they conformed 
to their altered circumstances with the 
graceful ease that had characterized them 
amid far different scenes. 

But this peaceful state of affairs could 
not long continue. The enemies of the 
dethroned monarch, thirsting for his blood, 
soon had him separated from the objects 
of his fond affection and thrown into a 
lonely cell to prepare for trial. The little 



34 A fathee's tales. 

party left in tlie Temple were now indeed 
desolate and aiEicted. They conld no 
longer pursue tlie employments and amuse- 
ments which had hitherto beguiled the 
weary days ; all other thoughts and cares 
were lost in intense anxiety for the king. 
By means of his faithful attendant, Clery, 
they occasionally heard from him, but the 
tidings of his mock trial dispelled every 
hope they had tried to entertain. Happy 
was it for the devoted wife and sister in 
that time of anguish that their trust was 
fixed on a heavenly comforter ; that true 
piety softened in some degree the bitter- 
ness of their affliction. And happy for 
the king that a life spent in the practice 
of virtue had prepared him to trust with 
humble confidence to that great Tribunal 
where justice and mercy — ^neither of which 
could he expect from man — would decide 
his lot for eternity. To him no earthly 
hope remained. The yoimg Eepublic 
(as France was now proclaimed,) must 
signalize her entrance among nations by 
the murder of the best of kings. 



THE KIKG AND THE QUEEN. 85 

Louis was summoned to trial by tlie Na- 
tional Convention as a tyrant and enemy 
of his country. He appeared before them 
Avith a firm, manly bearing, and calmly 
listened to the monstrous charges whose 
falsity was well known to his accusers. 
Of the few heroic men who had the cour- 
age to volunteer as his legal defenders he 
had chosen Messieurs Trouchet, Malesher- 
bes and Deseze. These gentlemen exerted 
all their powers in his defence, Many of 
the members of the Convention also pleaded 
eloquently for him, but in vain. His con- 
demnation had been decreed long before. 
The Convention, by a majority of twenty - 
six out of seven hundred and twenty voters, 
sentenced him to death by the guillotine. 
Louis was not dismayed by the dread an- 
nouncement. Earth had lost its charms 
for him; his zealous confessor animated 
him to endure a painful and ignominious 
death by the remembrance of his Saviour's 
sufferings. His only anxiety was for his 
family, but he was consoled by the belief 



86 A father's tales. 

that his death would put an end to their 
trials. He imagined, as was natural, that 
after his execution the fickle tide of popu- 
lar favor would turn against his murder- 
ers, and that his son would be allowed 
to ascend the throne of his ancestors. 
With this impression he gave the little 
Dauphin his last command, one which 
fully proved the Christian nobleness of 
his soul — it was to take no revenge for 
his father's death. In the same spirit of 
sublime fortitude and charity he ascended 
the scaffold, and uttered his last words 
in clear, firm tones: "I die innocent — 
I forgive my enemies!" He would have 
added a few parting words to those whom 
he well styled his unfortunate people, 
but the loud roll of drums interrupted 
him. The next moment the axe fell — his 
confessor, the intrepid Abbe Edge worth, 
announced the end of the terrible tragedy 
by that solemn, beautiful farewell : '■'■Son of 
St. Louis ! ascend to Heaven^ 

Thus on the memorable 21st of January, 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 37 

1793, was commenced that reign of blood- 
shed and crime in the name of "Liberty, 
Fraternity, and Equality," which was to 
plunge unhappy France into woe, and ren- 
der the name of Eepublican odious to all 
Europe. 

The deluded multitude broke into wild 
shouts of joy, and cries of " Live the Ee- 
public," rang through the streets as the 
frenzied crowds rushed along exulting over 
the fall of their royal victim. Those shouts 
penetrated the Temple and struck dismally 
to the hearts of the weeping, trembling 
group there, telling them the sad fate of 
him they loved. Ah! what unutterable 
anguish was theirs. Prostrate before her 
crucifix the mourning sister passed that 
,woful day in fervent prayer for the be- 
reaved widow and helpless orphans; in- 
terrupting her supplication only to lavish 
tender attentions on those dear objects of 
her solicitude. The poor Queen was ut- 
terly bowed down with her affliction. 

4 



38 A father's tales. 

Slie begged an account of tlie last hours 
•of the King, but her cruel jailers refused 
her even this sad consolation. Nor was 
she allowed to receive the ring and lock 
of hair which King Louis had desired to 
he transmitted to her. Months of dreary cap- 
tivity wore on ; the captives were treated 
with the utmost rigor, as it was the de- 
sign of their enemies to kill them by harsh- 
ness and privation. They were denied all 
communication with their friends, nor did 
any one dare to manifest any sympathy 
for them. To increase their woes the little 
Prince was torn from his frantic mother, 
and imprisoned in another part of the Tem- 
ple. In vain the Queen and the two Prin- 
cesses besou'ght even the poor privilege of 
sometimes seeing him. They were harshly 
refused, and their cup of sorrow was full 
when they learned that he had been en- 
trusted to the care of a drunken cobbler, 
who abused him unmercifully, while the 
poor child wept and pleaded to be allowed 
to see his mother. "What tidings were 
these for the heart-broken Queen. 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 89 

Six months after the death of the King, 
the Convention decreed that Marie Antoi- 
nette be removed to the prison of the Con- 
ciergerie to prepare for her approaching 
triaL At two o'clock one morning the 
soldiers burst into the Queen's apartment, 
and commanded her to rise from her bed 
and follow them. The unhappy Queen 
silently obeyed, but her anguish was over- 
whelming when she folded her daughter 
to her heart for the last time. Then lead- 
ing the afilicted maiden to Madame, she 
said, " Behold the person who will be to 
you henceforth father and mother, obey 
her, love her, as your mother. And you, 
my dear sister," she added, embracing her, . 
" I leave you to be the mother of my poor 
orphans. Love them as you have loved 
us in the dungeon, and even unto death." 
With these words, unable longer to endure 
the parting scene, she rushed from the 
room. In passing through the low door- 
way, she struck her head with great force 
against it. When one of the soldiers in- 



40 A father's tales. 

quired if she was hurt, she replied, in ac- 
cents of despair : "0, no — nothing now 
can harm me." 

The prison of the Conciergerie was a 
range of subterranean dungeons beneath 
the Palace of Justice. Into one of these 
underground cells, as-^damp and repulsive 
as a sepulchre, was rudely thrust the daugh- 
ter of the great Marie Therese of Austria. 
A pine table, two old chairs, and a miser- 
able bed with tattered and soiled bedding, 
comprised the furniture. One small win- 
dow admitted a few rays of light between 
massive iron bars; water dripped down 
the mouldy walls, and settled in pools on 
the stone floor. The silence of this living 
tomb was broken only by the grating of 
rusty locks and keys, and hinges, and the 
rumbling of carts over the pavements over- 
head. Such was the abode furnished to 
the once brilliant star of the Tuileries. 
the envied bride of a powerful monarch, the 
kind-hearted, amiable Marie Antoinette. 

The cruelty of her enemies would have 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 41 

deprived her even of tlie comfort of know- 
ing that her situation excited compassion 
in any heart. But the jailer and his wife, 
feeling the deepest sympathy for their illus- 
trious prisoner, contrived by stealth to ex- 
press their feelings by kind looks and words, 
which afforded her some alleviation of her 
woes. They were constantly desirous to 
gratify her as far as possible, in every wish 
she expressed. Once the jailer's wife, Ma- 
dame Eichard, understood that she (Jesired 
a melon. She went immediately to the mar- 
ket. Something in her manner, as she ex- 
amined the fruit, conveyed her secret pur- 
pose to the market-woman. "You want 
it for the Queen, I know," she whispered, 
eagerly, " Well, choose the best — No, I 
will have no money for it — tell our unfor- 
tunate Qaeen that there are many" who 
weep for her." The Queen was touched 
and gratified by this little incident. One 
day Madame Eichard presented her a rose, 
concealed among its petals was a scrap of 
paper upon which a friend had inscribed a 



42 A father's tales. 

few words of love. Tlie watchful soldiers, 
two of whorQ were constantly in tlie cell 
by day and night, detected the loving arti- 
fice ; and the jailer and his wife were im- 
mured in the d.ungeons whose horrors 
they had charitably wished to alleviate. 
Madame Kichard was killed soon after. Ma- 
rie Antoinette mourned her kind-hearted 
keeper. A new jailer was placed over her, 
with the most stringent instructions. He 
was strictly charged to give her no food 
other than the coarse bread and muddy 
water which were furnished to the most 
worthless criminals. But Madame Bault, 
the new jailer's wife, touched with the deep- 
est compassion for the discrowned Queen, 
in defiance of this order, supplied her with 
food prepared by her own hands. She 
also allowed her daughter to go to the cell 
every morning to dress the captive's hair, 
and sent by her several tokens of regard, 
though to avoid exciting suspicion she 
never approached the cell herself. Thus 
the spirit of humanity, even triumphs in 
revolutionary dungeons. 

< 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 43 

Still, notwithstanding these kindnesses 
the condition of the Queen was most piti- 
able, during the two months she passed 
in the Conciergerie, and her miserable 
appearance might have awakened some 
feeling of pity in the hardest heart. Her 
health had completely failed. Every 
trace of her radiant beauty had disap- 
peared ; her cheeks were hollow and 
pallid ; her eyes sunken ; her hair white as 
snow. She possessed but two gowns, and 
they were in tatters ; her shoes, kept con- 
stantly wet from the dampness of the floor, 
were such 'as a beggar would disdain to 
wear. But all her physical suffering was 
nothing compared to the agony of mind 
she endured ; grieving for her martyred 
husband ; fearing for the fate of her child- 
ren ; shrinking with natural rep^ignance 
from the doom she well knew awaited her- 
self. But all these trials were preparing 
for her an immortal crown. To occupy 
her time, she sometimes wrote, with a 
needle on the walls of her cell, portions of 



44 A fathee's tales. 

the hymns and prayers which she was 
wont to repeat. Wishing to send some 
memorial of her last days on earth to her 
daughter, she pulled some threads from 
an old counterpane, and by means of two 
ivory tooth-picks, knitted a garter. When 
it was finished, she watched her opportu- 
nity, and, giving her compassionate jailer 
a sign, dropped it near him. He, letting 
fall his handkerchief, contrived to pick 
up the garter along with it, imdetected by 
the guards. What a precious memorial 
of love was that to the affectionate heart 
of Marie Therese. 

At length, on the 14th of October, 
Marie Antoinette was summoned to appear 
before the tribunal which was to decide 
her earthly fate. What a tribunal was 
that to decide legal questions and adminis- 
ter y^s^zce. It consisted of a public crier, 
a surgeon, an upholsterer, a tailor, a 
printer, a barber, and a painter. This 
was counted a triumph of the people over 
monarchy. The Queen was accused "of 



THE KING AND THE QUEEN. 45 

having conspired against France," a vague 
but terrible accusation, wbicli was suffi- 
cient to condemn to the block any person 
obnoxious to tbe tyrants. The Queen, 
with an air composed and majestic as in 
her proudest days, listened to the absurd 
charges which they vainly strove to bring 
against her. The mockery of a trial lasted 
three days and night, and was in the esti- 
mation of impartial persons a complete 
vindication of the Queen. There were 
perjured witnesses of course ; such wretches 
can always be procured by any govern- 
ment, and a court which is convened f(^ 
the purpose of convicting will always be 
tase enough to pretend to give credence 
to such testimony. The Queen was unani- 
mously condemned by this so-called tri- 
bunal. 

She heard the sentence without any 
symptom of emotion ; it was what she had 
long expected. Reconducted to her cell, 
she immediately wrote a touching letter 
of farewell to Madame Elizabeth, dated 



46 A fathee's tales. 

from tlie Conciergerie, October 16th, 1793, 
at half-past four o'clock in the niorning. 
In this letter she sent to her children her 
blessing, with some ^ood advice as to their 
future conduct. She particularly wished 
to impress on her son's mind the dying 
charge of his royal father, which she " now 
repeated emphatically — Let him never seek 
to avenge our death P'' She expressed her 
desire to die at peace with all the world ; 
her tender regard for Madame Elizabeth, 
and her few remaining friends, whose 
pardon she besought if she had ever 
paused them pain. She also declared her 
purpose of dying in the holy faith of her 
fathers, though she could not hope to ref^ 
ceive spiritual consolation, as none but a 
" constitutional" priest would be allowed 
to attend her. 

The barbarous cruelty of the foes of 
royalty was shown in the smallest mat- 
ters. This illustrious sufferer, more en- 
nobled by her virtues and trials than 
even by her high birth, was conveyed to 



THE KIXG AND THE QUEE]S^. 47 

the place of execution in a common cart, 
her hands bound, the executioner sitting 
on one side of her, on the other the con- 
stitutional priest, whose ministrations she, 
of course, refused. The cart was escorted 
by detachments of cavalry and infantry — 
thousands of troops lined the streets ; an 
actor, hired for the purpose, incited the 
people to shouts and yells of derision. 
The Queen, unmoved, showed neither dis- 
dain nor fear. Her firmness did not de- 
sert her on the scaffold. Fervently in- 
voking Him in whom she trusted, she 
met her doom calmly, and thus passed 
from a world in which she had experi- 
enced the extreme of good and bad for- 
tunes. 




CHAPTEE II. ^s^^^^ 




THE KOYAL CHILDKEN". 

HAVE already, in speaking 
of the King and Queen, al- 
luded to the trials in which 
their two children shared 
Let us now enter into some 
of the details of those young 
lives so early clouded. 

The princess, Marie Therese Charlotte, 
was the eldest child of Louis XYI. and 
Marie Antoinette, and was born at Ver- 
sailles, on the 19th of December, 1778. 
Her education was conducted with the 
greatest care, by several governesses, of 
whom the most important were Madame 
de Tourzel and Madame de Polignac. 
(48) 



THE EOYAL CHILDREN-. 49 

Her mother and lier aunt, Madame Eliza- 
"beth, also took pleasure in instructing 
her. The little princess did credit to her 
zealous and accomplished teachers : She 
made extraordinary progress both in 
virtue and learning. An anecdote which 
is related of her when only eight years 
old, shows how generous was her dispo- 
sition, and how early she had learned the 
patience and fortitude of Avhich her after 
life was to prove so bright an example. 
One morning, when she was reciting her 
lesson, the governess, Madame de Mac- 
kan, accidentally trod on her foot. The 
child, without giving the least sign of the 
pain she was sufiering, went on with her 
task, and the teacher knew nothing of the 
occurrence, until she was preparing her 
pupil for bed, when to her surprise and 
distress she found the foot much inflamed, 
and the stocking saturated with blood. 
To the question why did she not mention 
the hurt at the time, Marie Therese tenderly 
embracing her preceptress, replied, " Dear 

6 



50 A father's tales. 

Madame, if now that I have ceased to 
suffer, the accident afflicts you so much,- 
what would not have been your pain if 
you had known it when I was suffering ?" 
Thus patient and considerate of others 
was this royal child. 

In her ninth year she was affianced to 
her cousin Louis Antoine, the Duke d'- 
Angouleme, son of the Count d'Artoise, 
amid scenes of festivity and rejoicing. 
Long years afterward she used to speak 
of this joyous time with something of 
surprise that she had ever known such 
happiness. The Duke was an amiable, 
pious youth, and the King and Queen 
rejoiced over the prospect of happiness to 
their child from a betrothal, which true 
affection as well as state reasons sanctioned. 
Who could then dream of the trials await- 
ing the child-bride — through what fearful 
scenes she was destined to pass ere the 
celebration of the nuptials thus fore- 
shadowed ! 

The revolution began, and, as I have 



THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 51 

already mentioned, tlie royal family were 
compelled to remove from Versailles to 
Paris, where they found themselves in 
reality prisoners in charge of watchful 
guards. Here, under circumstances so 
widely different from what she had once 
anticipated, Marie Therese made her first 
communion. Pious and sensible to a 
degree far above her years, she prepared 
for this solemn duty with the greatest 
care, giving little thought to the absence 
of all those ceremonies and festivities 
which were wont to grace so important a 
day in the lives of the royal children of 
France. But her parents and aunt felt the 
change keenly. When the King gave her 
his blessing on that memorable morning, 
he folded her in his arms, and lamenting 
that he could not bestow on her the splen- 
did gifts customary on this solemn occasion, 
said : 

" I know you are too reasonable, my 
daughter, to think, at the time when your 
attention should be wholly given to adorn 



52 A father's tales. 

ing your soul and making it a fitting resi- 
dence for the King of Heaven, of any 
worldly gifts I could bestow upon you. 
Besides, my dear child, the public misery 
is very great ; the poor are in much dis- 
tress; and I feel sure that you would 
rather dispense v/ith rich ornaments than 
wear them, while knowing that so many 
want bread." Thus spoke the good King 
whom his enemies delighted to represent 
to deluded multitudes as the o|)pressor of 
his people, regardless of their sufferings. 

The young princess has left us a touch- 
ing account of the afflictions and vexations 
endured by the royal prisoners. It is 
from her we learn how nobly all was 
endured ; what order, regularity, and good 
employment of time were observed, as far 
as circumstances permitted. And most 
affecting is her description of her little 
brother, who, scarcely more than an 
infant when the troubles began, shared in 
the privations and dangers to which his 
parents were subjected. With his mind 



THE KOYAL CHILDEEN. 53 

prematured by woe, and his generous, 
sensitive disposition, so like his father's, 
the Dauphin felt most keenly every insult 
and injury inflicted on those who were all 
the world to him. , Once, during the early 
days of their captivity, he was with his 
mother when the mob filled the court of 
Tuilleries, addressing her in the most in- 
sulting language, and uttering fierce 
threats and imprecations. Little Louis 
gazed alternately at the riotous crowd, 
and at his mother and aunt, whose calm, 
majestic air never forsook them. Follow- 
ing- their example he remained silent, 
showing no symptom of grief or fear 
during that cruel scene which lasted over 
^ve hours. But the next morning when 
the shouts of the rabble again arose around 
the palace, he evinced the impression it 
had made on his mind by his artless ques- 
tion, "Mamma, is'nt yesterday over yet?" 
Poor innocent child — the scenes of yester- 
day were to be re-enacted during weary 
years. 

6* 



54 A father's tales. 

On another occasion, after listening: with 
swelling heart to the brutal language with 
which the jailers were wont to address the' 
King, the child ran and hid himself in his 
room to give vent to the tears he would 
not shed in presence of his afi&icted parents. 
When his sister followed him, trying to 
soothe his grief, he told her with heart- 
breaking sobs, that "he seemed to see his 
father already killed." It seems scarcely 
credible that even the monsters of the 
revolution would be willing to persecute 
so young a victim : but he was the King's 
son — that thought was suf&cient to steel 
their hearts against him. One day the 
guard told his prisoners that in case the 
enemy, (meaning the true sons of France, 
who were now in arms for the King,) ap- 
proached Paris, they should be put to 
death : adding that he only felt compassion 
for the little Louis, but still, as the son of 
a tyrant, he must die with the others, young 
as he was. 

After the death of the King the Conven- 
6* 



THE ROYAL CHILDREN. 55 

tion were mucli perplexed as to what dis- 
posal to make of the child, who was noAv 
rightfully Louis XYII., and, therefore, the 
object of their hatred and alarm. They 
were unwilling to condemn him to the 
guillotine ; such a barbarous measure might 
be impolitic, yet they could feel no security 
while he lived, in the enjoyment of their 
usurped power. They finally passed a de- 
cree ordering him to be taken from his 
mother, and confined in the strongest room 
in the tower. When the order was read 
to the royal prisoners a heart-rending 
scene took place. The Prince, with frantic 
screams, threw himself into his mother's 
arms, imploring her not to give him up to 
his executioners. The poor Queen, in the 
delirium of her grief placed him on the 
bed, and stationing herself between him 
and the agents of the Convention, declared 
they should kill her before she would 
allow them to touch her idolized boy. 
Even those stony hearts were moved, and 
for two hours they tried, by mingled per- 



56 A fathee's tales. 

suasions, threats and insults, to accomplisli 
their object without resorting to actual 
violence. At last, the unfortunate mother 
wholly exhausted, fell prostrate on the bed, 
and the child, still struggling, and scream- 
ing with grief and terror, was borne away 
to hisnew cell. The little party thus cruelly 
bereaved, wept and prayed, and vainly 
strove to console each other by hopes none 
of them could venture to entertain. Daily 
they expected to hear that their darling's 
life had been sacrificed ; but a more cruel 
fate was reserved for him. 

For two days the poor child lay on the 
floor of his gloomy cell, refusing all nour- 
ishment, longing to die. As the vehe- 
mence of his grief exhausted itself, he be- 
gan to recall the pious lessons he had re- 
ceived from his beloved parents, and with 
his tears were now mingled supplications 
for resignation and submission to the holy 
will of God. It was well for him that his 
soul had been so thoroughly imbued with 
religious sentiments, for he was now the 



THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 57 

victim of persecution wliicli it required 
superhuman fortitude in a child of seven 
years to endure. He was placed under 
the charge of a drunken cohbler, named 
Simon. This man, who was one of the 
Convention's hirelings, accepted the trust 
with fiendish delight. 

" What am I to do with him?" he asked 
the Committee. of Public Safety. " Banish 
him from France?" 

'' ISTo," was the only answer vouchsafed. 

"Shall I kill him?" 

''No." 

" Poison him?" 

" No. Get quit of liim — now you know 
your of&ce." 

The inhuman Simon did, indeed, under- 
stand his ofiice, and faithfully did he per- 
form a trust which suited his inhuman 
nature well. From that day every species 
of cruelty which he could invent he tried 
on the desolate child. He made him his 
servant, exacted from him the most labo- 
rious and menial tasks, punishing him 



58 A fathek's tales. 

without mercy when he failed to satisfy 
his requirements. ITot content with all 
the physical torture he could inflict on 
his royal victim, he strove by every 
means to deprave his mind, and rob him 
of those virtuous sentiments which were 
now his only consolation. He tried to 
teach him the most blasphemous oaths, 
and to force him to sing wicked songs. 
But the pure-minded child, shuddering 
with horror, would cover his ears to keep 
out the loathsome sounds, though he knew 
cruel blows would punish what his perse- 
cutor termed his obstinacy. It is heart- 
sickening to think of the sufferings the 
delicate, sensitive child endured at the 
hands of this monster — the dangers of 
soul and body to which he was exposed 
during two weary years. Yet the grace of 
God sustained him through all, and virtue 
has seldom had a nobler triumph than 
in the person of this heroic descendant of 
kings, whose short life was one continual 
scene of war. Nor is there on record an 



THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 59 

« 

instance of more true nobleness of soul 
than is related of this " child of France." 

" Capet," said his brntal guardian to 
him one day, "if the friends of royalty 
should ever succeed, and place you on 
your father's throne, what would you do ?" 

^^ I would forgive you^'' was the instant 
reply. 0, worthy son of a noble sire ! 
No dazzling visions of pomp and power 
floated before him at that glorious pros- 
pect, his first thought was that he would 
exercise the sovereign's best prerogative — 
to show mercy. Think of this, children, 
when you find it hardio forgive any trifling 
slight or injury you receive; remember 
little Louis XVII. and his persecutor. 

Happily the other sorrowing captives 
of the Temple did not know how cruelly 
the child so dear to them was treated. 
Their own fate daily became more gloomy 
and hopeless. Soon their number was 
again lessened; the hapless Queen was 
borne o£R to the horrid dungeon, which was 
the gate to the scaffold. The young prin- 



60 A father's tales. 

cess suffered so much from grief at the 
separation from her mother, and anxiety 
and gloomy forebodings of what would be 
that dear ' parent's fate, that she had a 
severe fit of illness, during which her 
aunt, now her only companion and guar- 
dian, nursed her with the most devoted 
care. But neither sickness nor sorrow 
could shield her from the malicious de- 
vices of the enemies of her family. Hoping 
to extort from her some answer which 
they could alter to suit their purpose, 
they summoned the royal maiden before 
them, and artfully questioned her on the 
various accusations they intended to bring 
against her mother. For three hours this 
cross-examination lasted, causing incon- 
ceivable tortures to the timid, loving child, 
who in the bitterest anguish returned to 
her cell, and sought consolation from her 
beloved aunt. But she also was sum- 
moned in her turn to go through the same 
ordeal, and the failure of this atrocious 
plan for gaining information against the 



THE EOYAL CHILDEEN". 61 

Queen still more embittered their foes, 
and added to the rigor of their captivity. 
The trifling favors they had hitherto been 
allowed were withdrawn; the f^w relics 
they had of those dear to them, and of 
happier times, were rudely taken from 
them ; even the embroidery which the 
Queen had worked during her imprison- 
ment, and which the fond daughter begged 
with tears might be left to her. The 
tongue of slander was also employed to 
add to their sufferings. They were ac- 
cused of theft, of forgery; and these 
charges afforded a pretext for searching 
them, as often as suited their diabolical 
jailers, who gloated over the distress and 
humiliation which they caused. 

But a heavier blow was in store for 
Marie Therese. She must now lose her 
only friend, her second mother — who was 
to pass from the guillotine to that bright 
kingdom where her virtues would be re- 
warded with an unfading crown. On the 
night of the 9th of May, 1794, Madame 

6 



62 A father's tales. 

Elizabeth, was forced to leave her weeping 
neice, whom she was scarcely allowed to 
embrace, with a murmured blessing, ere 
she was *hurried away to the Conciergerie. 
The next day she was summoned to what 
was called her trial. Ko charge was made, 
no witnesses appeared against her. Her 
crime consisted in having dressed the 
wounds of the soldiers who had suffered 
in defending her royal brother on the fatal 
" lOtb of August," 1792, and being an ac- 
complice of the King and Queen! To 
establish, this, the court knew they needed 
only to put a few simple questions. The 
president, therefore, inquired where she 
was on those memorable days — the 6th of 
October, 20th. of June, and 10th of Au- 
gust — to which she replied with much dig- 
nity and firmness, that "she was with the 
King and Queen, having never quitted 
them under those trying circumstances." 
One of the counsel of Marie Antoinette, 
M. Chauveau Lagard, also generously 
came forward to defend Madame Eliza- 



THE EOYAL CHILDKEN. 63 

beth, but bis efforts were unavailing. In 
sucb courts sentence is determined on 
before the trial takes place. 

The Princess on being condemned was 
immediately hastened to the place of exe- 
cution. No time was given her to prepare 
for death, but it mattered not to her whose 
whole life had been a preparation for this 
solemn moment. On the way she exhorted 
her fellow-victims to contrition and re- 
signation, and prayed fervently for them 
as well as for herself. As a crowning act 
of cruelty her death was put off until all 
the others, over twenty in number, had 
been guillotined. But the horrid specta- 
cle did not daunt her firm soul. The in- 
terval only afforded her a last opportunity 
of exercising her favorite virtue, charity, 
in -recommending each soul, as the fatal 
knife set it free, to the mercy of God. And 
when, at length, her own turn came, with 
the same calm fortitude that she had main. 
tained through life she meekly yielded to 
her doom. Thus died, ere she had reached 



64 A .father's tales. 

her tliirti^tli birthday, the virtuous and 
accomplished sister of Louis XVI. Crowds 
of people thronged the streets through 
which she was conducted to the place of 
execution, lamenting that the good Princess 
who, in happy times, had devoted her time 
and means almost wholly to the poor and 
unfortunate, should thus be murdered ; yet 
as in the case of the King, making not one 
effort to release her. So worthless a thing 
is popular favor in nearly all cases. 

We must now return to the solitary oc- 
cupant of the royal cell, to whom this last 
deprivation was a most cruel blow. It had 
come so suddenly that the hapless girl was 
at first stupified by her grief. She did not 
yet know that her mother was dead, and 
for days she continued to importune her 
jailers to allow her to go to whatever 
prison her mother and aunt inhabited. At 
last the finishing stroke was given to her 
misery by the knowledge that she had seen 
both for the last time on earth. She was 
now, indeed, an orphan, and it would be 



THE EOYAL CHILDEEN. 65 

difficult to conceive a more desolate and 
sorrowful position than hers. Even her 
request to be allowed a female attendant 
was denied. The misery of the past was 
happiness compared to her present condi- 
tion. Prayer was her only solace in her 
loneliness and affliction ; by degrees this 
calmed the violence of her sorrow, and 
obtained her the resignation she humbly 
sought. 

The next event that had an influence on 
her destiny was the death of her little 
brother, who, after two years of suffering 
from his brutal guardian, expired on the 
8th of June, 1795. As there was no one 
now in France to aspire to the crown, the 
people of Orleans ventured to intercede for 
the " orphan of the Temple." Other towns 
followed the example, obtaining for her 
first a mitigation of the rigorous treatment 
she had so long endured, and under which 
her health was giving way. Finally, in 
December of the same year, the French 
Directory consented to exchange the daugh- 

6*^ 



66 A father's tales. 

ter of tlie martjr-king for commissioners 
whom Dumouriez had given up to Austria, 
and on her seventeenth birth- day she was 
released from captivity. Before leaving 
the scene of so many royal misfortunes 
she traced on the wall of her prison these 
words: " O, my God! pardon those who 
have put my parents to death!" It was 
the spirit of the parents still living in the 
last of this group of martyrs. The authori- 
ties, apprehensive of some demonstration 
on the part of the populace which would 
prove their attachment to the royal family, 
took care to have the Princess liberated at 
night, and conducted in silence and secresy 
to the carriage which awaited her at some 
distance from the Temple. Her journey 
through France was performed with as 
much concealment and speed as possible. 
She travelled under the name of Sophia, 
but her great resemblance to Marie An- 
toinette caused her to be often recognized, 
and she was much affected by the tearful 
homage she thus received. It was balm 



THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 67 • 

to her long-suffering spirit as she took 
what she believed to be her last look at 
her native land, the land which enshrined 
the precious dust of her parents, aunt, and 
brother. 

" I wonder she was allowed to leave 
France," said Charles, after his father had 
concluded. "It is strange to me that the 
Princess escaped the fate of the rest of her 
family." 

" It would probably have been otherwise 
had their been any danger of the new 
government being molested on her account, 
but as females are not eligible to the throne 
in France, they had nothing to apprehend. 
Besides, we are to remember that death 
can only come at the time that God ap- 
points ; and as the suffering and death of 
the others may serve as examples for us, 
so from the long and eventful life of Marie 
Therese we may derive many useful 
lessons, particularly in those virtues of 
which she was a model — perfect submis- 
sion to the will of God and unalterable 
fidelity to her religion." 



68 A father's tales. 

"I am so glad she was'nt killed — tlie 
dear good lady," said Katy. " Won't you 
tell lis some more about lier, papa ?" 

"Her subsequent history has no con- 
nection with, tbe revolution," replied the 
father, smiling, "and therefore does not 
eriiter into our agreement. It would take 
too long to narrate the particulars, for her 
career was one crowded with vicissitudes, 
dangers and misfortunes. I will allude to 
some of these, however ; her biography will 
be useful and interesting to you, by-and-by. 

" From France the princess went directly 
to Austria, where she was warmly welcom- 
ed by the court. In May, 1798, she repaired 
to Mittau, where her uncle, Louis XYIII. 
resided. A year* afterward she was married 
to the Duke of Angouleme to whom she 
had been betrothed twelve years before. 
Devotedly attached as they were to each 
other, there were many recollections that 
made this ceremony a mournful one, and 
the presence of the Abbe Edgeworth, the 
heroic priest who had attended her father 



THE ROYAL CHILDREN. 69 

to the scaffold — wliile it was gratifying to 
tlie grateful heart of the bride, could not 
fail to draw forth tears of filial love and 
regret. Napoleon's victories caused the 
family of Louis XVIII to leave the various 
towns in Germany in which they suc- 
cessively sought refuge. At last driven 
from the Continent, in 1809, they establish- 
ed themselves in England, the only part 
of Europe to which the power of the 
Emperor had not extended. Here they 
lived in seclusion for about six years, 
during which time the wife of Louis XVIII. 
died, and the charge of the royal house- 
hold fell on the Duchess. This was no 
pleasant duty, for with her uncle's limited 
means the closest economy was necessary. 
Marie Therese performed her task nobly, 
and even managed to spare something 
regularly for the relief of the poor, many 
of whom, like herself, were exiles from 
France. Only once did she appear at 
court, which was on the occasion of the 
anniversary of the birth of George III. 



70 A father's tales. 

At length the downfall of Napoleon re- 
stored her uncle to the throne of his 
ancestors. Their return to France evoked 
the wildest enthusiasm, and the amiable 
Duchess was the object of so many touching 
manifestations of regard, that again and 
again she exclaimed in the fulness of her 
heart, " How happy I am to find myself 
surrounded by the French." She was so 
much impressed by this enthusiastic wel- 
come that she could not forbear an expres- 
sion of wonder that the Bourbons should 
ever have quitted a land which could 
exhibit so much joy and gladness in re- 
ceiving them again. 

But she was soon to experience the 
fickleness of popular feeling. In less than 
a year her family were again exiles ; 
x^apoleon having returned from his banish- 
ment at Elba, and taken peaceable pos- 
session of the throne of France. Then 
there came another change — N^apoleon 
overthrown by fhe allied powers of Water- 
loo, the throne again reverted to Louis 



THE EOYAL CHILDKEN. 71 

XYIII. Marie Therese found herself once 
more in her native land, and the next 
fifteen years were spent tranquilly at the 
Tuilleries, in the constant practice of 
virtue and self-denial. She rose daily at 
five o'clock, took her breakfast, which 
consisted only of a cup of coftee at six, 
heard mass, and attended to the distribu- 
tion of her charities, which were both 
judicious and liberal. She was careful to 
employ every moment profitably, and to 
make herself useful to every one around 
her. Amid the splendor of the court, the 
object of universal love and admiration, 
she lived the life of a saint. It would 
seem that after so many trials, the evening 
of her life might pass in tranquillity. But 
this was not to be. The revolution of 
1830 banished the royal family once more. 
For the third and last time she was forced 
to flee from the land of her birth. Some 
more years were spent in wanderings, find- 
ing temporary homes in England, Scotland 
and Germany. She had beheld her most 



72 A father's tales. 

tenderly loved relatives and friends one 
after another pass away; last and most 
deeply monrned was the good Duke, her 
husband. But the time drew near for her 
to depart to receive the reward of her 
saintlike virtues — of her almost unequaled 
trials. An attack of inflammation of the 
lungs closed her heroic life on the 18th 
of October, 1851. The last three days of 
her life, notwithstanding the severity of 
her illness, were as industriously employed 
as if she was in perfect health. All her 
papers were inspected and arranged, the 
affairs of her poor pensioners regulated, 
her friends and servants taken leave of, 
and affectionate messages sent to those 
whom she could not receive. Then her 
thoughts were given wholly to the Grod 
she had so faithfully served, and the 
prayer, "O God! come in aid to Thy 
humble and unworthy servant in this hour 
of judgment," was frequently on her lips, 
until her soul calmly passed from earth. 
Her biographer has remarked that the 



THE EOYAL CHILDREN. 



73 



will which she herself drew up is the best 
funeral oration that could be read over 
her remains, so clearly does it display the 
piety, nobleness and talent of its royal 
author. And no higher eulogy could be 
pronounced than is offered in the testi- 
mony of all those who knew her, during 
the twenty years of her last exile, that no 
word of reproach against France ever 
escaped her lips ; charity and forgiveness 
characterized her to the last." 





CHAPTER III. 

f f 

THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 





s our attention was first given to 
the sufferings of tlie royal family 
of France in tlie ■ Revolution," 
beo:an Mr. White on the next 



evening, 



I think the next 



Subject in order would be the 
trials of certain individuals who, 
although of no great rank or eminence at 
that time, have been made celebrated by 
succeeding events. If the story of Louis 
-XYI. shows how quickly all the power 

(H) 



THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 75 

and gra-ndeur of earth may be torn from 
their possessors, the history of those to 
whom I now refer is as remarkable an 
instance of the facility with which such 
dignities are sometimes obtained. The 
little family consisted of father, mother, 
and two children ; the father was beheaded ; 
the mother, on the eve of a similar fate, 
was set at liberty by a fortunate change 
in public affairs. The death of one, the 
escape of the other, produced no emotions * 
of grief or joy save among their few rela- 
tions and friends. They Avere only two 
amongst the thousands of Eobespierre's 
victim-s, whose fate was -of no particular *• 
interest to their country nor the world at 
large; yet several of their descendants '^re 
numbered among the imperial and royal 
houses of our day. Now who can tell me 
the name of this family ?" 

The older portion of the "young 
folks" looked from one to another in silence ; 
the little ones awaited the answer with 
curiosity and interest. Mr. White enjoyed 
the perplexity of the group. 



76 A father's tales. 

" Study the problem out, lads and lasses," 
said he, pleasantly. " I will give an ex- 
planation that may help to make it more 
easy-^-one of said descendants, a grand- 
child, is the reigning sovereign of one of 
the principal nations of Europe." 

"What, nowT^ asked Eichard, eagerly. 
^^ Now — at least was so at the date of 
our last intelligence from Europe. As the 
perverse cable refused to be laid I cannot 
9 vouch for what may have taken place 
among our foreign relations during the last 
twelve days." 

" One of the principal nations of Europe, 
' you said, uncle i" 

" Aye, Eichard, a ve?^ principal nation," 
was the laughing reply. 

" Oh, I know !" cried the oldest girl, 
triumphantly. 

"Who is it, Maggie?" "Do tell us." 
"Now, that isn't fair," were the general 
exclamations, as Maggie shook her head in 
merry defiance. 

" Father wishes each one to study it out. 



THE vicomte's family. 77 

Come, don't take all night — there are not 
so many principal nations in Europe." 

" "Well, /can't make it out," said Charles, 
who had been pondering the matter very 
thoughtfully. " There is England— —I am * 
sure Victoria's grandfather wasn't mur- 
dered by Eobespierre. And there is Aus- 
tria — and Bussia — and Spain — ^yes, and 
Grermany — none of their royal families 
had anything to do with the French Eevo- 
lution, except that some of them were re- 
lated to Louis and Marie Antoinette." 

''You didn't count France, Charles," 
said Katy, who was an attentive listener. 

hush, child — you don't know what 
we are talking about." 

''Never mind, Katy," said her eldest^ 
sister, as the child looked abashed at the 
boyish tone of superiority. " There has 
been many a poorer guess than that of 
yours. Maybe Master Charles had better 
take another thought before he dismisses 
France so hastily." 

" Now what are you talking about, Mag- 



78 A father's tales. 

gie ? Everybody knows who the Emperor 
Napoleon III. is," rejoined Charles. 

" Perhaps you will have no objection to 
tell us what you have learned of his gene- 
alogy," said Mr. White, with an arch 
smile. 

" Why, he is the youngest son of King 
Louis Bonaparte and Queen Hortense," 
replied Charles, confidently, "and surely, 
none of the Bonapartes was killed in the 
Ee volution. — 0, stop, I have it now ! How 
stupid in me not to remember that Hor- 
tense's father was among the last that Eobe- 
spierre sent to the guillotine, and that her 
mother was to lose her head also, but lived 
to marry Napoleon I., and so became Em- 
press of France. Pshaw, why didn't I think 
of that at first I" 

" Well, now that you have solved the 
problem I will commence my narration." 

The Yicomte Alexander de Beauharnais 
was one of those gallant young French- 
men who hastened with Lafayette to the 
assistance of the American colonies in the 

6* 



THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY.* 79 

early days of our revolution. He was an 
enthusiastic lover of liberty, and when the 
Revolution in his own country began he im- 
mediately adopted its principles, deluded, 
as -were many other well-meaning men, by 
the hope of thus procuring for France re- 
publican institutions similar to those of 
the New World. He represented the no- 
bles of Blois in the Constitutional Assem- 
bly, where his sentiments accorded with 
those of the moderate republicans. When 
the Assembly was dissolved, he regained 
the rank he had formerly held in the army, 
and was among the brave oflB.cers who ral- 
lied under the command of Lafayette as a 
body guard for the royal family, whose 
perils wer^ daily increasing. He was after- 
wards elected to the National Convention, 
of which body he was for a time president. 
When the murder of the King, rousing all 
Europe to just indignation, led to a general 
coalition agains the Republic, the revolu- 
tionary leaders, having in their own party 
no officers of military knowledge or expe- 



80* A fathee's tales. 

rience, were obliged to intrast important 
commands to the few nobles who still ad- 
hered to the republican canse. Among 
these De Beauharnais held a conspicuous 
position. He was appointed to the com- 
mand of the army on the German fron- 
tier, where he proved himself a brare and 
ef&cient general. But the arrest of the 
Girondists, or moderate members of the 
Convention, and their total destruction as 
a governing class by the murder of twenty 
of their number, threw the whole power 
of the government into the hands of the 
Jacobins, a mob the most bru.tal, cowardly 
and ferocious in the annals of crime. One 
of their first acts was to dismiss from the 
civil and military service of the Eepublic, 
all who had a claim to noble birth or per- 
sonal distinction, and to fill their places 
with their own miserable creatures. De 
Beauharnais was, of course, among those 
discharged from the army. Most of the 
disgraced oflScers fled to foreign lands, 
aware that there was no longer safety for 



THE VICOMTE's FAMILY. 81 

them in their own. The Yicomte, trusting 
to the zealous services he had rendered 
the Eepublic, returned to Paris, and took 
up his residence in the family mansion. 
His "wife, the amiable Josephine, gladly 
welcomed him back to private life ; the 
children, Eugene and Hortense, by their 
sprightly, affectionate ways, contributed 
to the happiness of their parents. A few 
weeks thus passed ; then the little family 
circle was broken, never to be reunited 
on earth. 

The Yicomte was arrested by order of 
the Eevolutionary Committee, and conduct- 
ed to the prison of the Luxembourg. No 
charge was r^ade against him ; none was 
needed: under the plea of the necessity 
of securing the safety of the Eepublic, any 
man, woman, or child could be dragged 
from home, consigned to a gloomy dungeon, 
and beheaded whenever it was the will of 
the tyrants who now governed unhappy 
France. And .the fiendlike character of 
these men is vividly portrayed in Jose 



82 A father's tales. 

pTiine's letters to her aunt derailing the 
various proceedings against her husband. 
One of the Committee assured her that the 
Kevolution would only be brought to a 
happy conclusion when it should have 
succeeded in reducing all its enemies to 
the condition of African savages ; and that 
to accomplish this end, bethought "the 
whole race of priests, nobles, landed pro- 
prietors, in short all the aristocratic classes 
ought to be dispatched to St. Domingo, to 
replace the negro slaves," whom these 
champions of freedom had recently emanci- 
pated. " Thus," he added, glancing feroci- 
ously at the Avife of his prisoner, " thus the 
true republicans secure the* grand moral 
triumph, by measures of profound and 
elevated policy." 

Josephine might well shudder at the 
thought of her husband being in the power 
of such monsters as this man and others 
whom she describes, judges, deputies, com- 
mitteemen — some surly and morose; others 
full of jests, blending with their brutality 



THE vicomte's family. 83 

an affectation of good nature that rendered 
them still more revolting. From such a 
government the Vicomte could expect 
neither justice nor mercy. Faithfully as 
he had served them in his mistaken zeal, 
he was too honorable, upright and humane, 
to escape suspicion, and to be "suspected" 
was to be ruined. His connection with 
the moderate republicans during his politi- 
cal career, his noble efforts in behalf of 
the King in the Convention which doomed 
the monarch to death, were sufficient to 
stamp him as an enemy of " the Republic, 

one and indivisible." Besides he was of 

« 

noble birth, an unpardonable crime in 
their eyes ; and his brother, the Marquis 
de Beauharnais, had joined the royal 
army under Conde, at the commencement 
of the struggle, and had demanded the 
right of appearing at the mock trial of the 
King as his defender. 

It was evident, therefore, from the first 
that the Yicomte could not escape condem- 
nation. However, his situation was more 



84 A father's tales. 

tolerable tlian that of most of his fellow 
captives. A voung shoemaker who belong- 
.ed to the Eevolutionarj Committee had a 
great esteem for Monsieur de Beauhar- 
nais, who was by his means enabled to 
correspond frequently with his wife. 
Young IN'evil also exerted his influence 
with the Committee to obtain permission 
for Josephine and the children to visit the 
prisoner. The children were overjoyed 
when they learned that they were to see 
their beloved father. They had been told 
that he, being sick, was under the care of 
a celebrated physician who resided in the 
Luxembourg, but Hortense, who, though 
only eleven years old, was remarkably in- 
telligent and sensible, soon 'began to sus- 
pect the true state of affairs. On the 
other hand Eugene, who was three years 
her senior, suspected nothing, and en- 
deavored to console his parents whose 
emotion during this interview could not 
be concealed, by insisting that his papa's 
illness was not very dangerous, as he was 



THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 85 

able to walk about, and they would soon 
have him at home again. Hortense listen- 
ed to her brother in silent incredulity for 
some time. 

"Do you believe that papa is ill?" she 
asked at last. " If so, it is not sickness 
which the doctor cures." 

" What do you mean, my dear girl ?" 
said her mother; "can you suppose that 
papa and I would contrive between us to 
deceive you?" 

" Pardon, mamma, but I do think so." 

"Oh! sister/' interrupted Eugene," that 
is a very singular speech of yours." 

" On the contrary, it is quite simple and 
natural," said Hortense, readily. " Good 
parents are permitted to deceive their 
children, when they wish to spare them 
uneasiness; is it not so mamma?" And 
she threw herself into her mother's arms, 
atoning by her loving caresses for the 
boldness of her suspicion. 

The children were indignant as well as 
grieved when they learned the truth. 

8 



86 A father's tales, 

''Oh," cried tlie spirited Hortense, " wBen 
we are able we will punish your ac- 
cusers." 

"Hush, my child," interrupted her 
father, "were you to be overheard speak- 
ing thus, we should all be ruined; while 
we would not then have the consolation 
of being persecuted altogether unjustly." 

"But, papa," said Eugene, " have you 
not often explained to us that it is lawful 
to resist oppression?" 

"Yes, my son, and I repeat the same 
sentiment now ; but resistance must be ac- 
companied by prudence: he who would 
overcome tyranny must be careful , not to 
put the tyrant on his guard. But enough 
of this — let us converse on more pleasant 
themes." 

Then all endeavored to speak cheerfully, 
and make the most of this brief interview 
— the last the father was to have with his 
children, and as it turned out, a most un- 
fortunate one. For his conversation with 
them being overheard, (how or by whom 



THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY 87 

never transpired,) was reported to the "ty- 
rant," and led to fresh suspicions against 
the Yicomte, and to more rigid measures 
against all the inmates of the prison. The 
government newspaper announced that a 
grand conspiracy had been discovered 
in the Luxembourg, the principal leader 
being the Vicomte de Beauharnais ; but 
added, that " the conspiracy against lih- 
erty had been dissipated ; the eye of Gov- 
ernment would soon unravel its darkest 
intricacies ; and the hands armed for the 
consolidating of the Republic, would not 
be slack to punish those who seemed to 
live only for its overthrow." A safe prom- 
ise, that, for " punishing" seemed to be the 
only business of this charming republican 
government. To unravel the conspiracy, 
a member of the Committee was appointed 
to question Eugene and Hortense, sepe- 
rately and in secret, as to any conversa- 
tions they had heard on public affairs, the 
visits and letters their parents had been in 
the habit of receiving, the opinions they 



88 A father's tales. 

liad expressed, &c. The monsters hoped 
thus to obtain some information they could 
use against their prisoner, but as in the 
case of the examination of the royal chil- 
dren, their schemes failed. 

Soon after this Madame De Beauharnais 
received an anonymous note, informing 
her that she was to be arrested within a 
few hours. A mode of escape was afforded, 
but she could not consent to abandon her 
children, and increase the peril of her hus- 
band, in order to secure her own safety. 
As calmly as possible she made such ar- 
rangements as time permitted of her house- 
hold affairs, and then sat down with her 
son and daughter to await the dreaded 
summons. As evening wore one she be- 
gan to hope that the information was in- 
correct. Sleep at last overcame the chil- 
dren spite of their efforts, and having dis- 
missed them to rest, she remained alone, 
tortured with the thoughts to which her 
position naturally gave rise. At length a 
loud knocking announced that her hour 



THE VICOMTE's FAMILY. 89 

had come. Nerving herself to endurance, 
she beheld without shrinking, a band of 
armed men enter her sitting-room, seal np 
drawers and cabinets, and then range them- 
selves in order to conduct her to prison. 
Without entreaty or remonstrance, where 
both were useless, the captive delayed only 
to take a farewell — her last^ she feared — 
of her sleeping children. As she kissed 
her daughter's forehead a tear fell upon it. 
The child, half-rousing from a deep slum- 
ber, clasped her arms around her mother's 
neck, and murmured in her slumber — 
" Come to bed, mamma; fear nothing, they 
shall not take you away. I have prayed 
to God for you." "With a breaking heart 
the mother gently unclasped those little 
clinging arms, and went with her captors 
to the Carmelite prison, so called from 
having been a convent of the Carmelites 
before the evil days. 

When morning broke upon the chil- 
dren's peaceful slumbers, they found them- 
selves alone and friendless in the great 

8^ 



90 A fathee's tales. 

tumultuous city. One parent in a dun- 
geon to which they could not gain access, 
the other they knew not where; their 
other relatives exiled or distant from the 
city ; no one to look to for comfort or pro- 
tection, but a faithful domestic, Yictorine, 
who was too much distressed and alarmed 
at the arrest of her mistress to be of any 
use. After the first burst of grief had 
subsided, they began seriously to consider 
what was to be done. 

" Let us go at once to the Luxembourg, 
and demand admittance to papa's cell," 
exclaimed Hortense, with the same energy 
and fearless spirit that she displayed 
through an eventful life. 

Eugene, always calm and cautious, ob- 
jected. "We could not gain admittance, 
sister, and, perhaps such an attempt would 
compromise our parents. We must be 
careful what we do, for their sakes." 

" What then shall we do ?" 

" Suppose WQ send word to aunt Fanny 
she will know what is best to be done." 



THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 91 

Hortense agreed to this, and citizen 
ISTevil's mother conveyed the desired mes- 
sage to Madame Fanny Beanharnais, who 
speedily removed the children to her home 
at Yersailles. Intelligence of this being 
soon imparted to the parents by the kind- 
hearted 3^oung Nevil relieved their great 
anxiety. 

Our little Hortense could not remain 
tranquil at Yersailles without making an 
effort to be reunited to her parents, whose 
perilous situation she realized more keenly 
when she found herself so far separated 
from them. She tried to induce her aunt 
to remove to Paris, that they might at 
least be near the objects of her filial solici- 
tude, and failing in this she would fain 
persuade Eugene to go back with her to 
the great city ; she reminded him that 
Yictorine was still there, in charge of their 
dear home, and that if they were there 
they could often hear from papa and 
mamma, by means of citizen N"evil and his 
mother. But her brother, though as 



92 A fathee's tales. 

affectionate as herself, was of a different 
disposition, and conld not be persuaded 
into any sucli useless and dangerous enter- 
prises. The little girl did not abandon 
her purpose ; she formed a plan to do by 
herself what others refused to do, and then, 
to use her own expression, prayed to Grod 
to help her out. I am afraid she was 
thinking more of her project than of her 
prayers, or she might have recollected 
that it was an odd thing to ask for help 
from heaven in an act of disobedience and 
deception. But probably she thought her 
little scheme altogether praiseworthy. At 
daybreak, on a fine June morning, she 
slipped quietly out of the house, and, 
obtaining a seat in the market wagon of a 
neighboring farmer, who usually passed 
her aunt's house at that hour, was soon 
jogging along the road to Paris. Arrived 
there, she' presented herself before the 
astonished Yictorine, who soon convinced 
her that she had travelled thirty miles on 
a very foolish errand. Poor child! she 



THE VICOMTE'S FAMILY. 98 

had felt so sure that once in Paris she 
would overcome all difficulties, and insist 
on gaining admission to either her father 
or mother. The disappointment was terri- 
ble, and a more subdued and disconsolate 
child could not be imagined than Hor- 
tense Beauharnais, as she tearfully travel- 
led back that road to Yersailles. 

A few weeks later she had only one 
parent. Her father suffered death on the 
24th of July, 1794. He died as become a 
soldier and a Christian, contrite for his 
sins, resigned to the will of God. " Love 
each other ; speak of me" — -thus concluded 
his farewell letter to his wife and children. 
"And never forget that the glory of dying 
the victim of tyrants, the martyr of free- 
dom, ennobles the scaffold." 

To Madame de Beauharnais the bereav- 
ment was an unexpected calamity. Her 
husband had not been tried, and she was 
awaiting with mingled hopes and fears 
the day of his trial, when she learned that 
he had been already guillotined. On the 



94 A father's tales. 

same day that she received this sad intelli- 
gence she was told that on the morrow 
she was to be removed to the Conciergerie, 
and thence to the guillotine. But that 
very night the tyrant fell a victim to the 
spirit of vengeance he had aroused against 
thousands of the noble and virtuous. The 
oppressors now trembled in their turn. 
They became the objects of popular ven- 
geance, while those whom they had des- 
tined for the guillotine were restored to 
liberty. Josephine was among the first 
liberated. Hortense and Eugene had read 
and wept over the affecting letter of con- 
solation and good advice which their 
mother had written to them on receiving 
the intimation of her sentence. How great 
then was their happiness on learning that 
that dear parent was alive and at liberty, 
and joylully they obeyed her summons to 
Paris. After some time her late husband's 
property (which had been confiscated to 
the Eepublic) was restored ; and in a few 
years we find her Empress of France; 



THE VICOMTE's FAMILY. 95 

Eugene, Yiceroy of Italy; and Hortense, 
Queen of Holland." 

" It seems almost like a novel," remark- 
ed Maggie. "One can scarcely understand 
how such wonderful changes can take 
place in people's fortunes." 

"And so near our time, too," said Charles. 
" To think that that Hortense should be 
the mother of an Emperor, whom we are 
hearing about almost every day." 

"It is, indeed, a remarkable history," 
added Mr. White, " and has peculiar inter- 
est for us from having transpired so 
recently. It is on this account I have 
drawn your attention to it, for there are 
few examples better calculated to incul- 
cate a spirit of unshaken confidence and 
hope in God under the most trying circum- 
stances. No condition could be apparently 
more hopeless and miserable than that of 
■ Josephine and her children, during the 
reign of terror; the wildest dream of 
imagination could not picture the destiny 
in store for them. Thus we are taught 



96 



A father's tales. 



how vain are all speculations as to our 
future lot, and tliat under all circumstances 
we should abandon ourselves unreservedly 
to the Omnipotent Grod, who can overrule 
all for our good, either in time or eternity, 
as He sees best." 




^r-» 



6^1 CHAPTEE lY. |s 

TOMMY; THE ENGLISH ORPHAN. 



isssr- 



His evening I shall devote to 
the story of a poor orphan 
boy — another victim of the 
revolution — who has given 
the world a touching example 
of affection and gratitude. 

One morning as a priest belonging to 
the Semiifary of St. Sulpice, at Paris, was 
proceeding through a by-street on his 
customary labors of religion and charity 
among the poor, he saw at some distance 
9 (97) 




98 A father's tales. 

a child lying on the ground in an attitude 
so motionless that he seemed tb be either 
dead or dying. A cold, drizzling rain was 
falling, and it was not likely that he would 
compose himself to sleep in that exposed 
situation. The reverend gentleman, always 
ready to hasten to the relief of suffering 
humanity, quickened his p^ce. He feared 
that the child had met with some fatal ac- 
cident, yet this supposition was contra- 
dicted by the absence of any crowd, or 
appearance of excitement in the neighbor- 
hood. On reaching the spot he discovered 
to his surprise and relief, that the object 
of his solicitude was neither dead nor in- 
jured; but as he raised him from the 
ground he thought he had never beheld a 
more forlorn, pitiable sight. The poor boy 
was evidently perishing from hunger ; his 
garments were both ragged and dirty ; and 
when he turned his large bro^ eyes on 
the person who was evincing so much com- 
passion for him, there was a depth of wretch- 
edness in their expression that fairly star- 



tommy; the ENGLISH OEPHAlSr. 99 

tied the good father. That look of wild^ 
despairing misery he had seen in hapless 
creatures whom a long and hopeless con- 
flict with want had driven to the verge 
of madness or snicide — a look he could 
never see without horror, but how appall- 
ing it was in a child ! To his softly spoken 
questions the boy gave no answer; the 
wild eyes were fixed upon his interro- 
gator with a staring intensity of gaze, the 
pale, dry lips were pressed tightly together ; 
but when the question was put at last, 
" Have you no home, my child ?" he shook 
his head slowly. 

" Poor child ! I fear you are almost fam- 
ished," said the good priest. " The first 
thing to be done is to get you some food." 

With these words he led the child to a 
little shop near at hand, where, having 
seen him eat some bread and soup with 
much satisfaction, he left him to rest, prom- 
ising to return in the course of the day. 
The child had not spoken a word, but he 
steadily watched every motion of his bene- 



100 A father's tales. 

factor, and from his little pallet on the 
floor, he gazed sorrowfully as the clergy- 
man departed, nntil he glanced back with 
a smile that at once set his doubts and 
fears to rest, for he laid back on his pillow 
and closed his eyes, as if in obedience to 
the parting injunction to go to sleep. 

The priest, as he left the shop, mildly 
expressed his astonishment and grief that 
a little child should be found in such a 
destitute condition, and no one in the neigh- 
borhood have the charity to give him even 
a temporary shelter. But when the wo- 
man roughly answered, they "all had 
enough to do to provide for their own 
children, and could not afibrd to be char- 
itable," he turned away in silence. He had 
seen of late such evidences of the selfish- 
ness and inhumanity which the spirit of 
infidelity was developing in the popula- 
tion of the metropolis. In obedience to its 
teaching, thousands had abandoned the 
belief and practice of religion, and in thus 
throwing off what they called the shackles 



TOMIMY: THE ENGLISH OEPHAN. 101 



of superstition and priestcraft, they had 
also parted with every virtuous and noble 
quality. Among J:he higher classes, this 
selfishness which was now becoming a pre- 
vailing characteristic, was glossed over by 
an appearance of elegance and refinement. 
In the humble ranks of life it was leading 
to that brutal, ungovernable ferocity which 
a few years later was displayed to a horri- 
fied world by the scenes of the reign of 
terror. The Abbe Capdeville, therefore, 
did not wonder at the woman's unfeeling 
and impertinent reply. It was but one 
more instance of the rapid growth of evils 
which he with his brother priests deplored, 
but could not check. 

On- revisiting his protege he found his 
appearance much improved in every re- 
spect. The child was eagerly watching 
for his return, and greeted him with a joy- 
ous animation that surprised and delighted 
his benefactor. He was willing to talk now, 
but his language was a strange jargon of 
French and English, and the account he 

7* 



102 A father's tales. 

could give of himself was very brief and 
unsatisfactorj. His name was Tommy; 
knew nothing of parents, kindred or home ; 
but had lived with different persons, by 
whom, the priest conjectured, he was neg- 
lected and ill-treated ; for he seemed to 
have no pleasant recollection of any, and 
that he was not ungrateful in disposition 
was proved by the confidiug affection he 
manifested to his new friend. It further 
seemed that he had been turned out of 
doors by his last protectors, and had wan- 
dered about the streets until quite ex- 
hausted by hunger and fatigue, he had 
lain down to die where the clergyman 
found him. All he knew of death was 
that " he knew a little boy once who staid 
a long time asleep, he thought, and when 
he asked if he should not wake Pierre to 
get his supper they said, no — Pierre would 
never want supper any more, for he was 
dead; so he thought it wag a good thing 
to be dead and want no supper.^'' The 
charitable priest could not refrain from 



TOMMY; THE ENGLISH ORPHAN. 103 

tears at the artlessly told story, which, 
brief as it was, showed sufficiently how he 
had suffered — poor little waif, cast adrift 
on the great ocean of Parisian life, help- 
less and forlorn. 

But he had fallen into good hands now, 
for the Abbe Capdeville was known to all 
Paris as the most tender-hearted and be- 
nevolent of men. By many he was always 
spoken of as "the good priest," or "onr 
good father." He reserved nothing for 
himself beyond the merest necessaries; 
though advanced in years and somewhat 
feeble in health, he denied himself every 
little indulgence which many would con- 
sider indispensable, in order to relieve 
the wants of the poor. Severe only to- 
wards himself, he was a model of charity 
and gentleness towards others. In the 
Seminary he was beloved alike by pro- 
fessors and students, and, though as re- 
nowned for his talents and learning as for 
his virtues, was meek and unassuming. 
His calm, benevolent countenance indi- 



104 A father's tales. 

'cated his goodness, and the peace of mind 
which he preserved under the most trying 
circnmstances. 

Such was the worthy priest, to whose 
heart the forlorn condition of little Tom- 
my appealed with irresistible force. He 
took him to the Seminary, and made every 
effort to discover some one on whose love 
and protection the poor child might have 
a claim, but no clue was ever obtained to 
his parentage. His looks and accents 
indicated that he was English, and he 
had some confused recollection of once 
"travelling on water, with a man whom 
he called father, and who called him 
Tommy, and who used to take him on his 
knee and kiss him, but after a while he never 
saw the man any more." So he came 
to be generally called, in the Seminary, 
" Tommy, the English Orphan," and great 
pity was felt for the forlorn little stranger. 
He was for a long time shy and distrust- 
ful of every one but his benefactor, whom 
lie loved with the strong, ardent affection 



tommy: the ENGLISH OEPHAN. 105 



of a child's heart that had never before 
known any one on whom to lavish its 
love. By degrees he began to manifest 
some attachment for others in return for 
the kindness with which he was uniformly 
tl'eated, but none was ever elevated to the 
place which his first patron had in his 
regard. In disposition he proved to be 
very gentle and docile, and when, by the 
comfort and happiness he enjoyed in his . 
new home, he lost the wild, haggard, starv- 
ing look that had rendered him such a for- 
lorn-looking little object, he was found to 
be quite a handsome and attractive child. 
His countenance denoted intelligence, also, 
and yet his mind was almost a blank. 
Though apparently eight or nine years 
old, he did not know the alphabet, and 
had none of the " smartness" possessed by , 
most children of half his age. But in that 
abode of piety and learning, in which he 
had happily found to be his home, this 
want was soon supplied. When he had 
acquired the rudiments of knowledge, 



106 A fathee's tales. 

wMcli was a matter of some difficulty, lie 
evinced an ardent inclination for study; and 
having so many kind friends, all willing to 
give him instruction in turn, his progress in 
learning was both rapid and thorough. 

For music Tommy had a superior talent. 
His voice, though not very powerful, was 
remarkably clear and sweet, and he soon 
became a member of the choir. Of instru- 
ments, the harp was his favorite. He 
never wearied of practising, and being a 
most attentive and pains-taking pupil, 
gave great satisfaction to his master, who 
frequently predicted that he would in 
time become a distinguished performer. 
In fact, the English orphan was a general 
favorite in the Seminary, his amiable dis- 
position and quiet studious habits accorded 
with the place. But his judicious patrons 
would have liked sometimes to find him 
more inclined to the active, noisy sports 
of boyhood ; for it was only in obedience 
to the rules laid down for him that he 
ever left his books to take amusement or 



tommy; the ENGLISH OEPHAN. 107 

exercise, and, thoiigli lie obeyed in sucli 
cases with his customary readiness, it was 
plain that he thought every moment lost 
which was not devoted to his various 
studies. He was of a peculiarly tranquil 
disposition, always cheerful, and easily 
satisfied. His only trouble seemed to be 
the fear of displeasing the Abbe Capde- 
ville, to please whom was his constant 
care. A chat or walk with his beloved 
benefactor, or an opportunity of doing 
him any service, was Tommy's greatest 
enjoyment; and probably much of the 
assiduity he displayed in mastering what- 
ever he undertook, arose from his extreme 
solicitude to give full satisfaction to him, 
whose gentle smile or word of approval 
more than repaid his exertions. The 
good priest on his part was every day 
more satisfied with his protege, and more 
thankful that he had been the agent in 
rescuing this promising lad from the sad 
fate which had seemed to threaten him. 
It was his delight, after a day spent in 



108 A fathek's tales. 

the arduous duties of his sacred office, to 
sit awhile in the gathering twilight, while 
Tommy performed on the harp, sacred or 
melancholy airs, which accorded with the 
taste of both. Thus more than seven 
years had passed happily, but those peace- 
ful times were soon to end. 

After that fatal 10th of August, 1792, 
when the last hopes of the King were 
rudely dispelled, persecution became the 
lot of the Church as well as of royalty. 
The priests were constantly menaced 
and insulted ; they performed their sacred 
functions amid difficulties and dangers; 
still the heroic spirit of the priesthood 
carried them dauntlessly through all. 
But when the revolutionary constitution 
came to be enforced, to their other trials 
was added that greatest grief the priest 
can experience — to be unable to bestow 
on his afflicted and terrified flock the conso- 
lation of religion — to be debarred from 
administering those holy sacraments which 
would strengthen and sustain them in the 



TOMMY; THE ENGLISH OEPHAN. 109 

time of peril. Some of tlie clergy took 
the constitutional oaths — a portion from a 
transient weakness or cowardly feeling, of 
which they afterwards repented through 
the grace of God — others deliberately sacri- 
ficed their duty to God to what they chose 
to consider their duty to the Government. 
But by far the larger number remained 
faithful, resisting alike the bribes and 
threats that were employed to induce 
them to swear to that wicked constitution. 
Then commenced an active persecution of 
those intrepid soldiers of Christ. Every 
one that could be discovered was thrown 
into a dungeon or brutally murdered by 
a mob. 

The clergy and seminarians of St. Sul- 
pice, of course, shared the dangers of their 
brethren. Some of their number, con- 
vinced that they could no longer be of use 
in France, made their escape with others 
to more peaceful countries, especially to 
the United States, whicb had the happi- 
ness of receiving many of those holy exiles, 



110 A father's tales. 

whose zealous labors contributed greatly 
:to the spread of Catholicity in the land of 
their adoption. Among those who remained 
in Paris and were soon dragged to prison 
was the Abbe Capdeville. The place of 
,his captivity was the Carmelite Convent. 
Tommy, almost distracted at the loss of 
his benefactor, ardently begged of the 
.authorities the privilege of sharing his 
captivity. The heartless men, who were 
ready to condemn thousands to a dungeon 
on the merest suspicion of sympathy for 
their victims, refused the poor lad's request 
under the pretence of compassion. But 
Tommy was indefatigable in his exertions 
to procure this boon, the only one he 
craved on earth. He appealed to one 
after another of the Convention, and at 
length had the good fortune to meet with 
one who had formerly been under obli- 
gations to the Abbe Capdeville. He, 
touched by the devotedness of the grateful 
boy, procured him the coveted order, and 
Tommy to his inexpressible joy found 



TOMMY; THE ENGLISH ORPHAN. Ill 

himself immured in ttie dungeon with his 
reverend friend. As a further favor 
towards the lad, whose history was well 
known to him, this humane member also 
allowed him to keep his harp, which was 
his greatest treasure. The Abbe, so resign- 
ed to his own fate, regretted deeply the 
imprisonment of Tommy, whose joyous 
exclamation, "Ah, my father, Grbd has 
permitted me to be with you again?" 
touched him deeply. 

But Tommy was once more the happiest 
of the happy. He was with his benefactor, 
he was surrounded by holy priests of God, 
to whom he was able to render many 
little serviced; again he joined in the 
prayers and devotional exercises he had 
been accustomed to from childhood, and 
the soft, rich tones of his harp often sound- 
ed through those consecrated haJls, which 
revolutionary vandalism had plundered 
and then converted to their own wicked 
uses. In making this convent the princi- 
pal scene of the imprisonment and torture 



112 A FATirKTl's TALES. 

of the clorgy tlioy tliouglit to servo their 
irn]in,ll()vv^(;d eiiuse by turning the abodes 
ol' nilif^ion and cliarity into Uieatres of 
bloodHhful and liorror ; l)ut it was meet 
tliaL frr>rti tliat deneerated spot the souls of 
hundreds oi' holy martyrs should go irp 
to th(; thron(5 of Ilirn for whose faith they 
eh(!(;rfidly gave U[) their lives. 

'IMie* month of September, 1793, opened 
with the most horrible massaere i-eeorded 
even of that fearful era. On the 2nd, 3rd, 
4ih and iA.li " days of agony," as a historian 
has termed tli(;rn, a mob, liired by the 
Convention, broke into the various prisons 
of Varis, and murdered between seven 
and eigliL lliousand persons; Yes, it is a 
matter of liistory, my ehihiren, though you 
may well (ixelaim in incredulous horror. 
Sucli a (b'e:i,dful event could not be credi- 
ted were it not that it is established 
])y indispiilabhi authority, '^rhe govern- 
ment liircid tliis mob of executioners at the 
rate of about four dollars a day. Both 
men and women wore engaged in the 



tommy; TUK KI^aiJBIl OI'JMIAN. 1 13 

liorrihhi LuHineKH, and llicy Hlau^liUtnrd 
the priHonerHindiHcrimina,tcly- the pririHt- 
hood, th(5 diiTforcnl, vcliinoiin or<J(;rH .'uid 
communities, iho nohilily, ;i,ll li;uJ r(;prc- 
Ront«'iiiv(;H arnori^ l;li(;H(i vic'liiriHol' wwpurn]- 
l(;l(;d liruUlity; v(!fi(;rablo old ag<; and 
ir)no(;f;nt <:liil(Jli(jod alike wonj Hacri/iccd. 
On IIm; l\r::i day (;(' UiIh droadful hulchcry 
the li"ly iiirnal/;;-! of l,li(; \i<)HA(; of ('.'ifiric- 
litcH e,'i,rri<;d iJic ^'j-own of m.-utyrdorri.-— 
W1j<;h ill'; mob, c/.v/cv io l>r;,"in Ijic work 
of d(;al[i, Hur roiindcjd iJic huihiirj^, the 
f)riHon('TH W(;r(} in the eliapnl, (^ircrin;,^ t}i(;ir 
last tribut(i of praiHe and [iri\,y<-v U> Ilirri 
in wlios(5 preKcnee t})(;y werv; kooh to ;i[)pr;ar. 
^^he f-Ii;),[K',l, deHpoik;d }>y rc-volutionary 
lury of its altar, fuj'iiitur*;, and it;-} ofx;!) 
tah';rn.'j/:K'. nlKjwing that no longc;r wan 
the adorabk} wacrifiee oiiered witliin ita 
walls, presented a monrnrul ;sj')f!(;tafJe to 
thoKe holy prieHtn; one rjljjeet alone had 
esca[)erj the naerilegiouH plund(;r(;rH, a 
erucihx ntill hun^^ abovo th(; altar, and on 
the dear ernl>l(;mor redemption and f'orgiv- 



114 A fathee's tales. 

ing love the gaze of all was fixed as they 
knelt there, unmoved by the wild tumult 
outside. The Abbe Capdeville recited 
the litany of the Saints and other prayers 
in his deep solemn tones; the responses 
were given as from a choir of martyrs, 
while above those sweet sounds rose the 
terrible cries and maledictions of the fierce 
multitude without, clamoring for the death 
of those calm, undaunted servants of the 
the Most High. 

But there was One person in the chapel 
who trembled at every repetition of the 
threatening outcries; his heart was rent 
with grief and fear, not for himself, but 
for another life a thousand times dearer to 
him than his own. Poor Tommy, in 
dreadful agitation, traversed the building, 
stopping at each window to listen, or run- 
ning into the vestibule, where he tossed 
his arms wildly about, uttering the most 
mournful cries, and sobbing convulsively. 
Some persons who had ventured in, looked 
compassionately at the youth, and said 
to one another, that his senses were leaving 



TOMMY; THE ENGLISH OKPHAN. 115 

hiin, his great grief had turned his brain. 
They wished to spare him the dreadful 
spectacle about to take place, and urged 
him to leave the chapel ; but he resolutely 
refined, and at last returning to his 
reverend friend, took his station by his 
side as if resolved not to be separated 
from him. Just then the doors were 
forced open, windows were broken, and 
the murderers, entering at several points 
simultaneously, began their work. In a 
few moments the steps of the altar, the 
floor of the sanctuary and the chapel were 
inundated with blood. Some of the holy 
martyrs were poniarded as they knelt, 
others were thrown against the stone floor or 
walls with such force, that their brains 
were dashed out. To this day the place 
of martyrdom retains the fearful crimson 
stains that tell of the scene there enacted ; 
and in the library is still preserved a copy 
of the New Testament, which was taken 
from the pocket of one of the martyrs, 
pierced with twenty -two dagger thrusts, 
its every page marked with gore. 



116 A fathee's taxes. 

The work of deatli was soon accomplislfcd 
on the unresisting victims. The perse- 
cutors hurried away to another scene of 
slaughter. What a scene they left behind 
them. The bright sun of September 
beamed in through the broken windows, 
and lingered like a glory around those 
precious forms which had yielded the im- 
mortal spirit, to join "that crimson choir" 
who chant the song of victory around the 
throne of the "Captain of salvation." "Many, 
like the venerable Arch-bishop of Aries had 
fallen like ripened grain beneath the stroke ; 
numbers were cast off in the prime of their 
useful, holy lives; and there were some 
whose golden bowl had been broken at 
the fountain," bright youths whose course 
of theology was suddenly finished, and 
who, instead of the tonsure had won the 
jnartyr's crown. And on all the holy 
calm of heaven rested ; no sign of a .violent 
death on those tranquil brows, on those 
lips whose last accents had breathed love 
to God^forgiveness to man. 



TOMMY; THE ENGLISH ORPHAN. 117 

The Abbe Capdeville had fallen across 
the steps of the altar, his last impulse one 
of tender, self-forgetful charity, to extend 
his mangled hand to Tommy as he fell, 
with a smile that was^a parting benedic- 
tion. That smile remained on his placid 
countenance. He looked as if enjoying a 
tranquil slumber, and the poor boy, who 
was now really insane, becoming convinced 
that his dear master slept, knelt quietly be- 
side the lifeless form to watch for its awaken- 
ing. He seemed to behold no longer the 
fearful scene of slaughter, but knelt there 
in patient hope, never once moving his 
eyes from the beloved countenance, until 
the last rays of the sun had disappeared, 
leaving the chapel wrapped in twilight 
gloom. Then, as if with a sudden recol- 
lection, he brought his harp and sitting 
down beside the corpse,played the sweet airs 
the good Abbe used to like to hear at that 
hour. And at the conclusion of each strain 
he would stoop softly down to see if his bene- 
factor had not yet awakened, and finding 



118 A father's tales. 

tlie tranquil sleep still continued, renew 
his soothing melodies. Those whom Chris- 
tian zeal had led to the chapel to remove 
the precious remains of the martyrs from 
the possession of #he persecutors, beheld 
with tears the poor boy's occupation. — 
They would not disturb him in his happy 
unconsciousness of what had taken place. 
At last the soft tones of the harp melted 
into silence. Slumber had fallen on the 
watching eyes, and poor Tommy was 
carried away to his bed. That lethargic 
sleep lasted for two days and nights ; he 
awoke, apparently refreshed and vigorous, 
but it was soon found that reason had 
fled forever. 

Every day he passed in perfect silence, 
to all appearance unconscious of every- 
thing around him, until the clock struck 
three — the hour of the martyrdom. The 
moment that hour struck. Tommy, for- 
getting his listlessness, would run to seek 
his harp, and leaning against the ruins of 
the altar, on the very spot where he had 



tommy: the en-glish okphan. 119 



been bereaved of all lie loved, play the 
old accustomed airs. While thus employed 
his features, so vacant during the previous 
hours, became again animated and expres- 
sive. He paused sometimes as if expect- 
ing to hear the gentle words of approval 
that formerly rewarded his efforts; then 
resuming his employment continued till 
the clock struck six, when leaving off ab- 
ruptly, he would say, with a sigh of gentle 
submission — "iVb^ yet! — hut to-morrow he 
will speak to his child T^ Then, kneeling 
down, he would pray fervently for a while, 
rise with a smothered sigh of disappoint- 
ment, and steal away on tiptoe, fearing to 
disturb the slumbers of his benefactor. 
Day after day for months the same affect- 
ing scene took place. Having no home, 
and being an object of general commise- 
ration, Tommy was allowed to remain in 
the prison, and hi§ peculiar form of in- 
sanity was so touching and harmless that 
no one interfered with him. He was per- 
mitted to continue the melancholy occu- 



120 A father's tales. 

pation wliicli for three hours eacli day 
gave him hope and interest. 

Other prisoners took the place of the 
martyred priests within the house of Car- 
melites. Among others the amiable Ma- 
dame de Beauharnais was here imprisoned, 
(as I have already related,) during the 
succeeding summer. " With shudderings," 
as she described to her aunt, she crossed 
" that threshold still humid with blood," 
and sadly reflected, "for what outrages 
are not those men prepared who did not 
punish the execrable crimes committed 
here !" In prison, as afterwards upon the 
throne, devoted to benevolence, the amia- 
ble Josephine regretted that she " was now 
without the power of doing good, since 
she could not move among those who were 
more comfortless than herself." But in 
this she was mistaken. Her unvarying 
kindness and cheerfulness comforted those 
of the prisoners with whom she was al- 
lowed to associate, and she found in the 
friendless Tommy an object on whom to 



TOMMY; THE ENGLISH OEPHAN. 121 

expend her active sympatliy. It is from 
her correspondence that we learn the chief 
particulars of his touching story. Before 
she saw him, her gentle heart was moved 
by the recital of the scene which took 
place day after day ; for it was a frequent 
subject of conversation among those who 
noticed how the youth, apparently dead 
to all other cares and feelings, watched 
daily the recurrence of that hour indelibly 
stamped on his heart rather than on his 
memory, which awakened ever the same 
loving hope, destined to be ever disap- 
pointed. When at length Josephine was 
permitted to see the object of her gentle 
pity, at the sight of that boyish counte- 
nance on which to use her own expression, 
" were depicted so many griefs and virtues," 
her interest was so much increased in the 
friendless orphan, that she wrote a full ac- 
count of his mournful history to her hus- 
band, to beguile him for a few moments from 
his own sorrows by occupying his benevo- 
lent mind with the sorrows of others. The 

11 



122 A father's tales. 

Vicomte's reply gives us a pleasing exem- 
plification of his goodness of heart. He 
informed his wife that having read her 
letter more than once privately, he then 
read it to his fellow-prisoners, who each, 
like himself, shed tears over little Tommy's 
misfortunes, and resolved that such a 
touching example of gratitude and virtue, 
in an epoch marked by the greatest crimes, 
must not remain in obscurity. Hence 
one proposed to paint the portrait of Tom- 
my as soon as opportunity offered; another 
would employ his literary talents in bring- 
ing the narrative prominently before the 
public, and it was hoped that t^ese offer- 
ings would lay the foundation of the or- 
phan's fortune. Monsieur de Beauharnais 
himself had a plan for still more befriend- 
ing the object of all this admiring solici- 
tude. He proposed to adopt him as a 
member of his family, when it should 
please God to reunite them once more, 
attaching the forsaken youth to the for- 
tunes of his son, Eugene, who could 



tommy; the ENGLISH OEPHAN. 123 

not fail to derive benefit from the com- 
panionship of one so virtuous and unfor- 
tunate. He urged his wife not to lose 
sight of this idea, which, if it could be 
realized, would enable them to gain the 
most affecting of recollections from the 
most painful occurrences of their lives. 

Josephine, delighted Avith this project, 
lost no time in imparting it to Tommy, 
who listened at first ^Yith the listless air 
now^ habitual to him. By degrees, how- 
ever, the kindness and gentleness of Ma- 
dame de Beauhafnais won upon him, and 
he consented to the plan, but on one ex- 
press condition, that upon the second day 
of every month he should be permitted to 
come to the prison, and charm the dreams 
of his sleeping friend and father, from 
three to six o'clock, by the music of his 
harp. The kind-hearted lady, moved to 
tears by so affecting a delirium, willingly 
assented to the condition. Thus benevo- 
lent friendship seemed about to bless the 
forlorn boy once more. But alas, those 



124 A father's tales. 

kind intentions were not to be realized. 
The vicomte perished on the scaffold ; his 
wife, barely escaping a similar fate, was 
suddenly released with some of the other 
prisoners, and in the confusion following 
the death of the tyrant and the unexpected 
change of affairs, all traces of the hapless* 
Tommy was lost. Madame de Beauhar- 
nais, more than ever anxious to carry out 
the benevolent plan which was almost the 
last desire of her husband, had inquiries 
inade as soon as opportunity was afforded, 
but no clue to his fate could be obtained. 
Most probably the poor lad perished of 
grief and want, when his sudden discharge 
from prison sent him bewildered and utter- 
ly helpless out on the great city, which 
had no care for an uncomplaining sufferer, 
when hardship and privation were the 
common lot of all. 

" Poor Tommy ! Perhaps he was killed 
in some out-of-the-way place," said Maggie. 

" I think it more likely that he died of 
starvation," rejoined her father. "All 



TOMMY; THE ENGLISH OKPHAN. 125 

France was at that time suffering from 
famine ; how, indeed, conld it be other- 
wise in the distracted state of the country ? 
In Paris, such was the scarcity that breafl 
was subjected to legal restrictions, two 
ounces only, and that of an inferior quality, 
being allowed to each person. Then was 
seen the strange sight of guests invited to 
the tables of even the most opulent, bring- 
ing their own allowance of bread. At such 
a time there could be little chance of one 
so poor and friendless as Tommy escaping 
starvation. Madame de Beauharnais her- 
self would have suffered, but for the kind- 
ness of one of her friends, for until the 
restoration of a portion of her husband's 
confiscated property, she had no resources. 
Madame Dumoulin, knowing this, daily 
invited her to her table, and exempted her 
from the necessity of bringing her own 
bread, so that as the grateful Josephine 
often said, pleasantly, when Empress — 
'to Madame Dumoulin I was actually 
indebted for my daily hreadJ " 
11* 



CHAPTEK Y. f 



THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 



9!^ 



iNCLE," said Eichard, "I think 
you mentioned in one of your 
stories that Lafayette was 
among those brave officers who 
j tried to protect the King from 
injury and insult. Our school history 
represents him as an ardent friend of the 
French Eepublic and Commander of the 
National Guard. Is this incorrect ? I hope 
it is, for I shouldn't like our Lafayette to 
have anything to do with those horrid 
republicans." 
(126) 




THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 127 

" Your history is correct," replied Mr. 
White, " but in neglecting to state that he 
afterwards abandoned the cause of the 
Republic, it leaves you under a wrong im- 
pression. In abridging histories and bio- 
graphies for general use, however, many 
material points have to be omitted or 
very briefly alluded to. There is, besides, 
among some American writers of late, a 
strange disposition shown to laud the 
French revolutionists, and gloss over their 
atrocities as springing naturally from the 
circumstances in which they were placed. 
We are asked to believe that their inten- 
tions were at first simply to free their 
country from the arbitrary rule of kings 
and priests — which these writers represent 
as having been oppressive beyond endur- 
ance ; and that the extravagant excesses 
into which they afterwards fell, were 
caused by the war which was made on the 
infant Republic, by other nations of Europe 
in behalf of the Bourbons. Indeed one of 
these popular histories of the day, goes so 



128 A father's tales. 

far as to assert tliat it is probable that the * 
royal party instigated tlie outrages com- 
mitted against religion and humanity, in 
order tliat tbe republican cause might be 
rendered odious, and the people induced 
to submit again to the monarchy for the 
sake of protection. The atrocity of this 
slander is equaled only by its absurdity, 
for how can any rational being imagine 
that the royalists would instigate the 
populace to commit such barbarities on 
themselves, their families and friends? 
Be on your guard against such books, my 
children. Sometimes they are written in 
very attractive style, the better to insinu- 
ate their poison into the unsuspecting or 
youthful mind. Their authors, while 
affecting to be most liberal and impartial, 
lose no opportunity of villifying, either 
openly, or by inference, the Church and 
her faithfal members, and strive to exalt 
her basest enemies — men, who have proved 
themselves to be devoid of every religious 
or moral sentiment — as patriots, heroes,. 



THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 129 

Christians. How easily this can be -done 
we have evidence in our own times. Victor 
Emanuel is lauded by almost the entire 
religious and secular press as the noblest, 
most exalted of characters, simply because 
he has plundered and oppressed the Church 
of Grod, and because his deluded champions 
imagine he wiH succeed in overthrowing 
Popery. We thus see*for ourselves that 
even some really good persons, candid and 
sensible in other matters, quite lose the 
ability to judge sensibly of any subject in 
which Catholicity is concerned. 

The French Revolution was character- 
ized by deeds of violence and horrors 
from its very commencement. That a few 
illustrious men like Lafayette, Beauhar- 
nais and Bailly, w^ere misled into joining 
its ranks proves nothing in its favor, for 
a bad cause always assumes a fair appear- 
ance that deludes some at the outset, who 
upon learning its true character shrink 
from it with abhorrence. It was thus 
with Lafayette. Scarcely had he been ap- 



130 A FATHEPw'S TALES. 

pointed Commander of tlie National Guard 
tlian he resigned on account of the ferocious 
disposition manifested by the rioters of, 
Paris. He was persuaded to resume com- 
mand, and the most solemn pledges given 
that such scenes should not be repeated ; 
pledges which were of course violated; 
and, at length, heart- sick and despairing, 
he abandoned a party which he could not 
influence for good, and became a voluntary 
exile from the land of his birth. He had 
scarcely left France when -he was taken 
prisoner, by the Austrians, and incarcerated 
in the fortress at Olmutz. For five years 
he was retained in captivity, though peti- 
tions from many quarters for his release 
were presented to the Emperor of Austria. 
His imprisonment was, perhaps, fortunate ; 
for otherwise he would in all probability 
have fallen into the hands of the revolution- 
ists, who would have quickly sent him to 
the guillotine as a traitor to the Eepublic. 
During his imprisonment an incident 
occurred which will interest you, as an 
American was particularly concerned in it. 



THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 131 

• 

Finding that there was no chance of the 
Marquis being released, t\w) young men, 
both strangers to him, undertook to rescue 
him from his dungeon. Thej were Dr. 
Bolman, a medical student at Hanover, 
and Colonel Huger, an American, then 
travelling in Europe. These young gentle- 
men had conceived an ardent friendship 
for each other; they were enthusiastic 
admirers of the gallant Frenchman, and 
from sympathizing in his misfortune, soon 
resolved, with the generous impulses of 
youth, to effect his deliverance. After 
much consultation with each other a plan 
was adopted that seemed likely to be suc- 
cessful. Colonel Huger feigned sickness, 
and Dr. Bolman, in the character of his 
physician, recommended travel and change 
of air, and to insure the success of his 
prescription accompanied the pretended 
invalid on his journey. Having visited 
several Grerman towns they came in due 
course to Olmutz. They soon managed 
to become acquainted with Lafayette's 
jailer, a kind-hearted man, who taking a 



132 A father's tales. 

liking to the polite, sociable young stran- 
gers, and suspecting no danger, allowed 
them to lend books to his distinguished 
prisoner, of course stipulating that he 
should first examine them. To this they 
willingly agreed, and in his presence wrote 
a complimentary , message to accompany 
the first books. The jailer turned over 
the leaves, and satisfied himself that there 
was no letter or writing of any kind con- 
cealed within. He did not look closely 
enough, however. On the margin of differ- 
ent pages the young men had written some 
words which seemed, to the jailer, to refer 
only to the reading matter, but which 
when put together, explained who they 
were and their object in coming to Austria. 
Lafayette easily comprehended the secret, 
and in a note of thanks informed his friends 
that he had read their books with miich 
attention, and was quite charmed with 
their contents. The unsuspicious jailer, 
seeing no harm in this polite message, 
made no difficulty about delivering it, 
and conveying a suitable reply. Thus he 



THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 133 

became the medium of a correspondence 
Avliich seemed compose^ of pretty compli- 
ments and learned criticisms, bnt the 
prisoner's eye saw a great deal that never 
riiet his keeper's. Among those marginal 
notes he had read, " Hold the paper before 
the fire." He did so with each successive 
note, when words, written in lemon juice, 
became visible, and he thus learned the 
arrangements by which his unknown 
friends hoped to effect his rescue. Their 
plan was so simple that they were quite 
sanguine of success. Colonel Huger had 
learned from the jailer that the prisoner 
was permitted occasionally to ride beyond 
the walls of the town in an open carriage, 
attended only by an officer who sat beside 
him, and a mounted soldier who followed 
the vehicle. As no one dreamed of an 
attempt on his part to escape, or of others 
to rescue him, no precaution was used. 
The two friends laid their plan accordingly. 
On an appointed day, well armed and 
mounted on spirited horses, they left the 
city, Bolman leading an extra horse which 



134 A father's tales. 

was intended for Lafayette. They halted 
at a spot which seemed favorable for their 
purpose, and as the carriage approached, 
they dashed up to it, disarmed the of&cer, 
put the soldier to flight, and liberated the 
illustrious captive. Unfortunately the 
third horse, alarmed by the sudden con- 
flict, broke loose, and fled across the plain. 
Dr. Bolman rode off in pursuit. The 
colonel, dismounting, forced Lafayette to 
take his horse, gave him the weapons 
taken from the Austrian of&cer, and point- 
ing out the road he was to take, had the 
satisfaction of seeing him dash away, and 
in a few minutes enter a wood which con- 
cealed his flight. At the same moment 
Bolman returned from his useless pursuit ; 
the horse, purposely selected for his spirit 
and swiftness, had brought both into plajjr, 
and was gone beyond the possibility of 
being overtaken. This mishap increased 
the danger of the adventurers. Resolv- 
ing to do the best they could, however, 
they both mounted on Bolman's horse, but 
had only proceeded a short distance when 



THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 135 

beliold ! anotlier miscliance — the animal 
fell, throwing Bolman to the ground 
and injuring him severely. Thej had 
now a friendly dispute, each insisting that 
the other should mount and endeavor to 
save himself Huger gained the point, 
and assisting his friend to the saddle, put 
an end to the argument by darting off to 
secure his own safety on foot. 

Meanwhile it is not to be supposed that 
the Austrians remained ignorant of their 
captive's rescue, or indifferent to recover- 
ing him. Already the cavalry had started 
in eager chase. The generous Huger was 
soon captured ; Bolman, when they over- 
took him, pretended to be in pursuit, and 
being a German, was not suspected of 
having anything to do in the rescue. 
Lafayette, well mounted and having con- 
siderable start of his pursuers, had every 
prospect of escape, but coming to a place 
where the roads forked, he unfortunately 
chose the wrong one. After proceeding- 
some distance, being uncertain of his where- 
abouts, he made inqairies of a peasant, 



186 A father's tales. 

who observing him closely, suspected liini 
to be a fugitive, and gave him a wrong 
direction. In a short time he was recap- 
tured, and sent back under a strong guard 
to Olmutz. Two days afterwards, Bolman 
also was taken. Thus the plan which had 
seemed to promise entire success, had 
failed through a succession of untoward 
circumstances, and not only was Lafayette 
once more in duress, but his enthusiastic 
champions also were placed in peril. This 
was a source of keen sorrow to the Mar- 
quis, who deeply regretted not having 
dissuaded the gallant youths from their 
enterprise; while they, on their part, 
would not have minded their ill-luck had 
he escaped. 

Huger was now also an inmate of the 
fortress, fettered and closely guarded. On 
the third day of his imprisonment he was 
summoned to undergo an examination be- 
fore the chief officers, civil and military, 
of Olmutz. Standing there in chains be- 
fore his frowning enemies, young Huger 
looked less a culprit than a hero. He was 



THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 137 

tlireatened with death "anless lie revealed 
the names of his fellow-conspirators, and 
all the details of his bold attempt against 
the Austrian empire; but his intrepid, 
bearing told that whatever might be his 
doom he would meet it so as to add fresh 
lustre to the name he bore — a name 
so distinguished in the annals of Maryland 
and South Carolina. Carefully refraining 
from the utterance of a word that could 
implicate the jailer, Bolman, or Lafayette 
himself, in his enterprise, he yet boldly 
avowed what his object had been, and re- 
gretted only its failure. Briefly, but with 
impassioned eloquence he recounted the 
services Lafayette had rendered to Amer- 
ica, and asked if he, an American, could 
know of his unjust and rigorous captivity, 
and make no effort to effect his deliverance. 
This noble sentiment, and the question with 
which he abruptly closed, "Is there one 
of you, gentlemen, who would not have 
done the same?" — thrilled one at least of 
his judges with admiration and sympathy. 
12^ 



188 A father's tales. 

Count Otlio, the commandant of tlie for- 
tress, answered impulsively : 
. " I judge of others by my own feelings. 
The attempt to injure me, by rescuing my 
prisoner, I freely forgive, and if ever I 
shall need a friend, I wish that friend may 
be an American.^'' 

How the heart of the gallant Southerner, 
so sensitive to the honor of his far-away 
home, must have swelled at that generous 
compliment. Others were not partakers 
of Count Otho's magnanimity, and Huger 
was kept for a long time in rigorous con- 
finement. Eventually, however, both he 
and his fellow-conspirator were restored to 
liberty. 

Another passage from the history of 
that time I will mention as also character- 
istic of the lively gratitude with which 
the heroic Marquis was regarded by the 
■people on whose struggling land he had 
conferred incalculable benefits. 

At the time that Lafayette was thus 

-imprisoned at Olmutz, his wife was thrown 

into prison in Paris, by the revolutionary 



THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 139 

authorities. Her mother and grandmother 
had already been sacrificed "to the popular 
fury against the aristocrats^ and there was no 
doubt that in a few days she also would be 
led to the guillotine. Mr. Monroe (after- 
wards President,) was then Minister from 
the United States to France. When he 
learned of Madame Lafayette's imprison- 
ment, his keenest sympathies were at once 
aroused. Of all men he alone could do 
any thing in her behalf, for the Bepuhlic 
of France, then professed great friendship 
for the American Eepublic, and aware of 
the regard entertained by the latter for 
Lafayette and his family, might listen to 
an appeal from Mr. Monroe. But it was 
necessary to proceed with caution, for the 
populace ruled as well as the Convention, 
and would have little scruple in taking 
the Ambassador's life if he incurred their 
displeasure. Mr. Monroe consulted his 
wife, who quickly convinced him that her 
intervention in the matter would be more 
ef&cacious with the mob than his, and 
obtained, though with difficulty, his con- 



140 A father's tales. 

sent to try a plan wliicli just occurred to 
lier mind. 

At tliat unfortunate era, tlie least ap- 
peaTance of splendor was almost certain 
to doom to destruction its possessor. In- 
deed, instances are on record of persons 
being brought to the guillotine for pre- 
suming to wear a better dress than the 
republican rabble approved. To avoid 
certain death, therefore, all appearance of 
wealth and luxury was carefully avoided. 
No private carriage was to be seen on the 
streets; the most opulent citizens either 
walked, or rode in the republican vehicles. 
So it could not fail to create a general sensa- 
tion when the splendid equipage of the 
American Minister appeared at the gate of 
the prison, and Mrs. Monroe calmly inform- 
ed the keeper that she had come to see the 
wife of General Lafayette. The news 
spread in all directions, and soon a dense 
crowd collected around the carriage. It 
was not a noisy, frenzied multitude, such 
as daily assembled in those thoroughfares. 
The utmost quiet prevailed; men and 



THE MARQUIS DE* LAFAYETTE. 141 

t 

women looked at eacli otlier, at tlie elegant 
carriage, and the high-mettled horses, 
which, impatient at the delay, pawed the 
ground and tossed their heads proudly, as 
if conscious of being the object of general 
attention ; then all eyes "were directed to 
the prison, and still entire silence pre- 
vailed — one word would have wrought the 
crowd np to its customary ferocious ex- 
citement, but happily no word was spoken. 
In the meantime Mrs. Monroe had 
obtained admission to Madame Lafayette's 
cell; she had the distracted lady in her 
arms, caressing and soothing her with 
sisterly affection. Madame Lafayette's 
situation was indeed distressing. From 
that gloomy prison her idolized mother 
and venerable grandmother had been led 
to execution a few days previous : her 
family were scattered and all in danger ; 
for her two fair daughters especially her 
maternal solicitude was most agonizing ; 
their father in an Austrian prison ; herself 
every hour expecting a summons to the 
dreaded guillotine. Alas ! at that dismal 



142 A fath.er's tales. 

« 

epocTi how overwhelming were the trials 
to which noble, virtuous women were 
subjected — superhuman courage alone 
could have sustained them. The hapless 
lady, when she heard her prison bolts 
withdrawn, imagined she was to be led to 
execution : she was in a state bordering on 
distraction, and it was long ere her visitor's 
gentle, loving ministrations could soothe 
and reassure her. Mrs. Monroe remained 
with her as long as she was permitted, 
weeping and sympathizing in her grief as 
wife and mother, and encouraging her by 
assurances that she should be saved ; that 
Mr. Monroe had determined to risk all if 
it became necessary, to effect her release. ' 
This promise she repeated again and 
again, and with additional solemnity when 
she embraced the sad prisoner at parting. 
When Madame Lafayette, clingiilg fondly 
to her warm-hearted friend, warned her 
of the danger her husband might incur in 
his generous undertaking, she answered 
with energy: "I would not say a word 
to hold him back — it is his duty — what 



THE MAEQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 143 

would OUT country be if your brave husband 
bad not risked everytbing in its defence !" 
These words, repeated by one of the 
keepers, were circulated among the crowd 
and deepened the feeling of compassionate 
interest which the meeting of two such 
women under such circumstances was 
calculated to awaken. Even a revolution- 
ary mob was sometimes accessible to a 
touch of feeling, and perhaps the natural 
vanity of Frenchmen was gratified by being 
reminded how. much the great Eepublic 
across the ocean was indebted to their 
countryman. At any rate the work was 
done. Loud and enthusiastic "Yivas" for 
America and for France broke from the 
assembled thousands, and became almost 
terrific when Mrs. Monroe, still in tears, 
was handed into her carriage, and grace- 
fully bowed her acknowledgment of the 
compliment paid to her country. The 
whole multitude attended her home, for 
the double purpose of honoring the repre- 
sentative of the United States, and of 
opposing any of their compatriots whose 



144 , A father's tales. 

ire miglit break forth at sight of the splen- 
did equipage. The feelings of Mr. Monroe 
during all this time no language could 
describe. He dared not accompany his 
wife to the prison ; that would counteract 
the feeling which must be awakened in 
order to save the prisoner. His heroic 
wife had accurately counted on the effect 
of such an uncommon scene, as well as of 
thus venturing alone and defenceless 
among the hrave people^ as they liked to 
be called. But she often said afterwards 
that in all the scenes of her life she never 
experienced such a variety of intense 
emotions as during that hour, calm as she. 
seemed to her admiring escort. . Happily 
her generous stratagem was crowned with 
success. Mr. Monroe, relieved of anxiety 
by her safe return, followed up the im- 
pression she had made, and so finally 
obtained Madame Lafayette's release as a 
personal favor. 

^O^v^ THE END. ^^W[ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



019 624 284 3 



